


Half of Something Else

by copperleaves



Series: Fractioned [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathtub Sex, F/M, Flashbacks, Food Sex, Megstiel - Freeform, Memory Loss, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Psychological Torture, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 67,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperleaves/pseuds/copperleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Crowley's boys dragged her to Hell, Meg wasn't afraid. She could take whatever Crowley could dish out, and for nearly a year she did. But then he changed the game, and her mind isn't her own anymore. He offers her an ultimatum: bring him the prophet, the tablet, and the angel Castiel, or suffer unimaginable torment. Meg's never been one to give in easy....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Squeeze

**It was all that we could do;**  
 **We're the only ones who knew.**  
 **Now all I think about is you.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

To a demon, Hell is home. The cries of the damned are like a mother’s lullabies. The scent of roasting flesh and boiling blood is the same as fresh-baked cookies or a newly mown lawn. Just as a human might have a particular sentimental attachment to a park or a lake or even a house, a demon can sometimes grow…fond…of a certain area of Hell. Make it his—or, in this case, _her_ —own.

To the demon who called herself Meg (that wasn’t her real name, of course; it was just a name she had found once, and liked, and kept), the torture chambers were that place. She had apprenticed under the great master himself, Alastair, whose name was still spoken in hushed and reverential tones along these hallowed, fluid-stained halls. Azazel’s daughter. Alastair’s pupil.

Crowley’s plaything.

How bitter the irony that he brought her here, of anywhere. But of course that’s why he did it. He reveled in her humiliation as much as anything, to see her brought so low where once she had ruled at the Master’s right hand.

Now she dangled from her chains like a limp and broken puppet, and the King of Hell looked on with a satisfied gleam in his olive eyes.

“Ah, poppet,” Crowley said, “tired so soon? We’ve only just begun!”

Her head hung low, and tangled black hair dragged the blood-saturated stone. That was another concocted humiliation: they were in Hell. Here, demons didn’t parade around in their meatsuits, but he kept her in hers for no other reason than because it amused him to do so. He liked to rip it apart and put it back together again.

She spat and raised her head. Glared at him through furious black eyes. “Go fuck yourself, Crowley,” she said in her sweetest voice.

His torture was amateur hour. It was only pain, and she’d been born of pain. What was pain to her? Her meatsuit’s blood meant nothing, and she endured it all. She screamed. Of course she screamed: it fucking hurt, and she wasn’t stupid. But she endured, and she was no closer to breaking than she’d been a year ago when all of this had started. Frankly, he was starting to bore her. Alastair would have strung him up by his own entrails as a hopeless incompetent five times over by now.

He smiled that smarmy, shit-eating grin of his and patted her. “Now, now, my dear. Language. Just because I’m torturing you doesn’t mean we should eschew civility.”

“I don’t think anyone actually says  _eschew_  anymore, Crowley.”

“Hum.” He rose from his chair and paced around the cell as he considered. “I suppose you’re right. Terrible shame, too.” He sighed. “There are days when I think perhaps I’ve lived too long.”

Her head lolled and she offered him a smirk. “Finally something we agree on.”

He backhanded her casually—she could tell his heart wasn’t really in it—and fixed her with a stern look. “Meg, my dear girl, you have proven far more resilient than I anticipated.”

“Why, Crowley, I’m touched. Honestly, my heart’s all aflutter.”

His mouth quirked. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

She shifted and her chains rattled. “I’m listening.”

“I know you are. You’re a smart girl.” He pulled his chair around and sat down just across from her. Their eyes were level, and his were dark and canny as they bored into hers. “Tell me everything you know about the angel Castiel,” he said.

That wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting, and it threw her. She tried to hide it behind a sneer and a glib comment. “That featherbrained tree topper? Only thing I know is last time I saw him he wasn’t exactly flying with all his wits about him, if you know what I mean.”

He stared at her. She tried not to squirm. She’d rather he go back to cutting her. “And that’s all you know? Truly?”

“What else would I know about an angel? I’m a demon, remember? Mortal enemies and whatnot. Idiot kept going on about bees and sandwiches.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head as though the vagaries of the angelic thought process were a complete mystery to her.

“Ah, my dear,” he said, his tone regretful, “I wish I could believe you. I truly do.”

“Great. More fun with sharp objects just so you can hear me repeat myself.” What now? There had been a several-month period where he’d enjoyed removing her limbs to “study” the agonizing process as they grew back. Or maybe they’d revisit the fun of him flaying her and feeding her skin to his dogs while she watched. Boring, boring, boring.

He chuckled, and something in that little laugh sent a chill straight through her. Her eyes snapped up to his, and he smiled, a feral baring of teeth that left her…unsettled. She shuddered hard enough to make the chains clank. Something new, then. Something…creative, maybe.

“I know we’ve just been playing games up to this point, you and I,” he said. “A bit of fun, really.” The heavy door behind him opened and a new presence filled the room. She didn’t recognize it, but she felt something…wiggle…at the corner of her mind, like a questing dart.…

Crowley still wore that aggressive not-a-smile. He caressed her cheek and his eyes flashed crimson. “Play time’s over, little girl.”

Now when Meg screamed, it was to beg. For mercy. For quiet. For an end. To tell. To tell. To tell all.

* * *

The memories came in searing white flashes, agonizing jolts and jangles and a tumble of pictures with words that matched the moving lips and, occasionally, accompanying background music. She hadn’t remembered her life having a soundtrack at the time. But then she realized it wasn’t music at all, not music but the sound of her own screaming bleeding through and sometimes memory-Meg’s face would contort in sudden agony and she would cry out but no one around her would react and how could they not notice…?

_Flash  
_ The rustle of wings. A rough voice, low and almost angry as it said her name. The  _wrongness_  of touch, almost stinging, somehow soothing, a hot tingle that ignited both demon and vessel…

No, not that. That was hers. He couldn’t have that.

_Flash  
_ “You’re an angel.”

“I’m sorry; is that a flirtation?”

_Flash_  
“I’m not angry with you, Meg,” Lucifer said in that careful, gentle tone he used when he was, in fact, truly furious.

She wanted to whimper, but he hated weakness. Instead she jutted out a hip and tossed her hair and offered him a cheeky grin. “Sorry, boss. Really. I just wasn’t expecting—”

“The ruthlessness of angels. I know.” He lifted his hands in a little shrug and smiled— _what can you do?_  “You mustn’t forget, sweetheart: I’m an angel, too.”

“Well, yeah, but compared to you, Clarence is just…he’s nothing. You’re  _everything_.”

He smiled again and beckoned her closer. She forced a swagger into her gait as she took a step toward him. He ran a finger down her burned cheek and she couldn’t hold back a wince. “I should make you keep these scars,” he said, “to help you remember.”

Her eyes widened. “I won’t forget. I got arrogant and stupid, and next time I see that little cloud hopper, he’s dead. I promise.”

“Always so vain,” he said. “That will get you in trouble one day.” He shoved her away and turned back toward the window, bored of her. “Go, then. Castiel got the better of you today, and Michael’s vessel is still alive because of it. Be glad I’m in a good mood.”

She swallowed and tried to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her. She stood, uncertain and a little frightened, until he flicked his fingers in dismissal. Fury drove her pace, and her steps pounded out his name:  _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel_. Damn angel. She’d skewer him with his own blade and deliver his head to Lucifer on a platter. She’d bathe in his blood and play cat’s cradle with his entrails. She’d make him beg for mercy and then laugh in his smug angel face as she cut.

The pictures in her mind grew increasingly violent, and she danced in the street with glee. Clarence was as good as dead. She spun and bounced on her toes, and the scent of him filtered up from her clothes among the smoke and burnt flesh and blood. She went still. Closed her eyes and recalled the moment just  _before_  he shoved her into the fire and stepped over her burning body. 

Opened them again as a catlike smile spread across her still-healing face.

Death, yes. Definitely death and pain and general unpleasantness. But first? Maybe fun of a different sort.

_Flash  
_ Blue eyes the color of a midnight sea, and she wondered when she’d gotten so damn poetical. Ridiculous. His eyes were blue. Just…blue. Kinda nice when they didn’t have that dopey  _I don’t know shit from Shinola_  expression…but kinda nice even when they did.

Dumbass angel.

_Flash  
_ “Why do you stay with me?”

“Nothing better to do.”

“Don’t lie. Why do you stay?”

She flipped the pages of her magazine and pretended to be absorbed in celebrity gossip. Her face burned and she was glad she had something to hide behind. She needed the time to steady her voice, mostly because she didn’t want to bite his head off. “How many demons have a chance to see an angel so helpless? It’s empowering.”

“Meg—”

“Don’t, Clarence.” She dropped the magazine and fixed him with a dark-eyed glare, hot and furious. “Don’t ask. If you have to ask, it ruins it. I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”

_Flash  
_ Fear. Adrenaline. Blood and, yes, tears, because she knew her number was almost up, and she didn’t want to die. She dashed the back of her hand across her face, furious with herself. What kind of an idiot cries in the face of Death? She should be laughing. Or at least really pissed off.

She rounded a corner and realized she’d hit a dead end. Fuck goddamn fuck mother fuck. She doubled over and pressed a small hand against the wound in her gut. It was the type of wound that killed a human after ten or fifteen minutes of agony (she knew from experience), but for her it was just the pain without the nice relaxing death at the end.

Crowley’s boys were coming, and they had her cornered like a rabid dog. She gritted her teeth and stood tall—or as tall as she could, considering. Maybe she should think about a more imposing vessel should she live through this. She could hear them. They knew where she was, tracked her by scent and blood spore, but they toyed with her. Enjoyed the hunt. She’d done it often enough that she couldn’t blame them, but still it annoyed the piss out of her and she wished they’d just get the hell on with it.

She tapped her foot, but then the pain doubled her up again. It was worse than it should be. Had they doped her with something? Typical Crowley. Too incompetent to do things the old-fashioned way, so he always had to add an extra flair or twist.

The filthy asphalt rushed toward her, and next thing she knew she stared up at the sky. Clouds scudded across a waning sliver of a moon. The stars were pale and far away and couldn’t hear her pleas. The demons drew closer.

She closed her eyes. When her lids dragged open again the sky had been replaced by a familiar face, and she gazed up at him with a sardonic twist to her lips. “Well, Clarence. Comin’ for to carry me home?”

He blinked at her. “You’re very badly injured.”

“Good of you to notice. Guess you’re here to gloat. I don’t really have the energy to pick up where we left off, sexy wings, so maybe next time, okay? Raincheck.” Her head lolled and she felt consciousness slipping. His voice floated to her from miles away, and she was glad that he’d left her to die or be captured in peace.

“Try not to die,” he said. “I’ll take care of the demons.”

They appeared at the mouth of the alley, and he was there to meet them. She tried to focus, but the images were slippery as eels. He had his blade in one hand, the blade she’d so memorably taken from him last time they’d met, and he used his other hand to smite the demons with pure angelic Grace. It was beautiful and horrible and Meg wondered if she were next. Why was he even here?

When it was over he straightened his coat and came back to her. Lifted her in his arms despite her token protests. “Thank you for not dying,” he said, his tone grave.

She let out a wheezing, breathy sound that might have been a laugh. She wanted to fight him. She really did. Every instinct told her to lash out with claws and teeth and thorns. But the pain in her gut was like a live wire, and he was warm and solid, and even the darkest part of her felt the irrational urge to twine herself around him and purr like a cat.

Regardless, she was too weak to fight. It didn’t seem like he was going to kill her. That left only one question. “Why are you doing this? I’m a demon.”

“The first time we met, I pushed you into holy fire.”

“I remember,” she said in a low growl.

“The second time we met, you fought off Hell hounds at great risk to yourself.”

“I tried to escape like anyone with half a brain. Don’t go making me out to be some big damn hero.”

He looked down at her, expression intense and befuddled. “A hero? No. You are a demon. But unlike most of your kind, perhaps there is a thread of redemption running through you. Some tiny spark among the putrescence.”

She glared. “You take it back, Clarence. I’m one hundred percent pure putrescence, and don’t you forget it.”

“As you wish,” he said, and they disappeared in a rustle of wings.  
 _Flash_

It wasn’t real. The screaming part of the memories wasn’t real. The memories were real, and she tried to feed him ( _it_ , the bizarre worm-like presence poking around in her brain) the benign ones, the ones that didn’t matter, but it wasn’t fooled. It delved deeper, and the harder it searched the more it hurt. If she just gave it what it wanted to know.…

No. Fuck Crowley. Fuck his mind-trawling whatever-it-was. If it wanted to squeeze Clarence out of her head, then by Lucifer it would have to fucking  _squeeze_.


	2. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes Meg an offer she literally can't refuse.

**And forget happiness; I'm fine.**  
 **I'll forget everything in time.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Innocence"

Crowley’s office was an oasis of civility nestled amidst the chaos of Hell. The walls were paneled in linenfold mahogany. The desk had once belonged to Winston Churchill. A peat fire crackled merrily in one corner. The room smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, books, and good whisky. It was Crowley’s refuge from the mundane realities of running the Underworld, and demons knew better than to bother him there.

It was surprising, then, that he had chosen to take a meeting in this  _sanctum sanctorum_ , but the blue-lipped warlocks were honored guests, and they had news. Or, maybe judging by the hubbub coming from inside the normally hushed room, no news at all.

“What the hell am I paying you an  _exorbitant_  amount of money for if you’re going to get the same results that I can on my own for free?” Crowley demanded. A bottle of well-aged Muscat flew through the air and shattered against the far wall. Expensive wine soaked into priceless Turkish rug.

“She is fighting us with a most singular will,” said the tallest of the three warlocks.

Crowley couldn’t tell if they were male or female, young or old, and they had no names. He wondered what they called each other. He’d taken to  _One_ ,  _Two_ , and  _Three_. The tallest was  _One_.

“She’s a  _demon_!” Crowley said. “Their will is as pliable as Play-Doh. You told me I would have what I needed in a day. It’s been a week.”

“That is why we are here,” said Two.

“The demon cannot take much more,” said Three. “It is already too late for her human vessel. The mind is irreparably shattered, beyond anyone’s ability to repair.”

He waved a hand. “So she’ll have to get a new meatsuit. That one was getting tired anyway. What about  _Meg_?”

The three exchanged an inscrutable look. All of their looks were inscrutable. “As we said, the demon is nearing her limit. One more session, perhaps two. That is all.”

Crowley simmered in silence. “What if I don’t get what I need in one or two more sessions?” he said, voice low and dangerous.

One raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Then you will not get what you need.”

“You promised me—”

Two cut him off with a gesture. “We promised you information. You have it. Specific information is…trickier. We explained this.”

“There is still the other option,” said One.

“If you can’t even get the memories I want out of her, how do you expect to control her once she’s topside?” Crowley said with an irritable growl.

“A mind is often easier to control than it is to delve,” said Three.

“From what we have been able to extract, it seems as though she and the angel had a strange…closeness,” said Two. “Use that.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the fire. “What happens if we try again?”

“It is a risk. We could perhaps succeed, and you could get what you have been looking for,” said Two.

“Then again,” said One, “perhaps what you are looking for is not there at all, and we destroy the demon for nothing.”

“No dirt. No Meg. No Cas. That would be unfortunate.” 

Crowley leaned back against the heavy desk and pondered his options. He hadn’t gotten to his position by being hasty or stupid, and he knew sometimes it was better to play a long game. The payoff could be infinitely higher in the end. It frustrated him, naturally: who knew that little bitch could be so fucking stubborn?

With a resigned sigh, he reached across the desk to press a button, and the heavy door opened. “Pay our guests and escort them out. Their services are no longer needed. Thank you, gentle…er, warlocks. You’ve been less helpful than I hoped, but more helpful than nothing.”

They bowed in rippling succession and followed their demon escort from the room. Crowley watched them go with an unfocused frown, his mind elsewhere. Send Meg up. Let her go. With the help of the warlocks’ little pet he would know exactly what she was up to, and that idea had definite appeal.

She could track Castiel. Castiel could track the tablets. And how sweet Meg’s impotent rage at being forced to not only betray someone she so ardently protected, but to do it at Crowley’s orders! To be his puppet! His dog on a leash.

His mouth curved in pure delight. He chuckled. Giggled. Threw back his head and laughed like a fool at the delicious thought of it.

* * *

 

Meg knew the moment her vessel’s mind broke for good, and it was with a tiny pang of regret that she said farewell to the girl from Cheboygan. She’d been a good meatsuit. Small, true, but tough, and with really great hair. Without Meg she’d been dead from the moment Cas threw them in holy fire, but at least before she’d still been usable. A meatsuit with a broken brain was worthless. Even a comatose human had all the working bits in place; they just required the right sort of spark. Whatever Crowley’s mind-trawling whats-it had done…

Well. Meg didn’t really have the spare energy to worry about it. It was all she could do to keep her  _own_  mind together. Shannon from Cheboygan was gone, and there was no point in crying over it now.

She was enjoying a brief moment of respite, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. She had no idea much time had passed since Crowley first unleashed the brain worm thing on her, but it seemed like forever. The entire year before was nothing compared to it, and she’d gladly undergo every cut, lash, and beating all over again to avoid one more second of that  _thing_  in her head.

Crowley must be loving this, she thought, to see her brought so low. He’d tried for a year to break her, and now after so brief a time she was utterly bereft. Azazel’s daughter. Alastair’s apprentice.

Crowley’s fucking plaything.

_So fucking tired_ , she thought in the part of her mind still capable of rational thought,  _of being defined by the men in my life._

The worst part was how the worm’s poison still lingered even after it was gone. Memories sometimes flashed through her mind unbidden, and she was caught up in them like when under the worm’s thrall. She hated it. She didn’t want to remember. That life was gone, and she’d never have it back again.

“Dead as sure as Shannon from Cheboygan,” she whispered in her damaged voice. She laughed, a mad, jangling sound, but it soon turned into a groan.

“Talking to ourselves, I see,” Crowley said from the doorway.

Her body jerked at the sound of his voice. She had a witty retort all ready, but she couldn’t seem to form the words. It came out something like “Bluuhh.”

He blinked at her. “I see our blue-lipped friends were right. A few more sessions with the worm and you’d be done for. Can’t have that, my pet, can we?”

She glared at him through glowing eyes, a demon’s eyes, but he just smiled. “I must say you’re looking well. Your true form is…impressive.”

And it was. Her lithe and slender body was covered in sinuous red and black scales. Her hair rippled down her back in blue-black waves. Her teeth were sharp as needles, and her eyes blazed with onyx fire. She wasn’t at her best, all things considered, but even so she was exquisite, a small dark storm.

“I especially like these,” he said with a lazy gesture toward her wings.

She grunted. He was mocking her, she knew. Only pureblood demons had wings, stunted leathery things that were just for show. They marked her as a direct descendent of Lilith through Azazel and—

_Flash  
_ “I think that’s why,” he said, his fingers tracing lazy, nonsensical patterns against the soft white skin of her shoulder.

She yawned and didn’t lift her head from where it was buried against his chest. “What are you talking about? Why would being pure demon make me  _more_  likely to have a spark? Not that I have one. I think you’re hallucinating.”

“I’m not,” he said with sublime confidence. “Consider. A creator always endows something of himself unto his creation. My Father gave angels our Grace and He gave humans their souls. Lucifer, despite his flaws, was an angel. What do you think he gave to Lilith?”

“A bad attitude?” she said, finally looking up at him with a wicked grin. “Herpes? The clap?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Humans are flawed creatures, Meg.”

“And demons aren’t? Listen, feathers, you’re awfully cute when you get all mystical, but I wouldn’t put too much stock in Lucifer’s gifts if I were you. I know he was your brother, but I knew him better than you did.”

“Perhaps that’s true, but—”  
 _Flash_

“Meg my pet, are you listening to me?” Crowley said, and the sound of his voice pulled her out of the memory as abruptly as she’d been thrown into it.

She hissed and her head pivoted toward him.

“Good to see I have your attention,” he said. “Now, as I was saying, about that offer…?”

She blinked with a double set of eyelids like a lizard. He had mentioned something about an offer before he’d started in on her with the worm, but he’d never actually  _made_  any offers. He’d just unleashed that thing inside her head and stood in the corner looking smug. And maybe a bit frustrated as time passed; she couldn’t really tell.

“I’m willing to let you go. Topside. Out of Hell. Free as a bird, my little pigeon.” His mouth curved. “Now I know what you’re thinking.  _Oh, Crowley! You’re the very soul of generosity. You’re also ridiculously handsome, witty, and charming. If I weren’t a drooling imbecile right now, I’d throw you to the floor and have my way with you!_ ”

“Ugh,” she said, a disgusted grunt.

“No, no, it’s all right. I understand. You’re not quite yourself. It happens to the best of us. It’s all true, by the way. What you would have said about me. I accept your compliments with humble thanks.”

“What…do you want…you asshat?” she managed in a low croak.

His smile was mild and innocent. “I told you. I’m here to set you free.”

She stared at him.

“Ah, well. It’s true. There is one tiny string.  _Caveat emptor_ , as they say. My dear, do you know why I’ve spent the last week drilling into your cranium like a prospector searching for gold?”

Her body uncurled slowly, cautiously. “I assume it has something to do with the angel. All the memories were about him.”

“The angel, yes. Our mutual friend Castiel.”

“Still hot for vengeance? Maybe you should learn to let things go, Crowley.”

His eyes flared crimson, and she fought the instinct to cringe. He took a breath and let it out with studied patience. “I am letting something go.  _You_. Castiel took something of mine, something important, and I want it back. He has half of my tablet, he has my prophet, and he took my angel. I want my toys back, Meggie. I want you to get them for me.”

Her chin dropped to her chest, and the noise that came out of her was like the grind of a saw. He gaped at her for several moments until he realized she was laughing, and then his gape turned into a scowl. “I can’t imagine what you could possibly find humorous about this situation.”

“You’re just so  _common_ , Crowley. Do you really think you can buy me that cheap? I wouldn’t work for you no matter what offer you put on the table. I fucking  _loathe_  you. You’re so far beneath me you don’t even register. Bring on the brain worm, kid. I’ll take another week of that, thanks.”

“Ah, Meg. Such a way with words.” He smirked and took a step closer. Loomed over her. “Let me put this another way, my pet: you may loathe me all you wish. I don’t give a damn. You  _will_  go topside. You will find my tablet. My prophet. The angel Castiel. You will discover why he killed Samandriel after he went to so much trouble to take him from me. You will do all of this, and you will do it at my behest. Do you understand?”

She struggled to sit up, and her glare would have made any lesser demon whimper. “Fuck you. Fuck your tablet. Fuck your prophet. And fuck your offer. My answer is  _no_. Kill me, brain-rape me, free me. I’m not working for you.”

He knelt in front of her and reached to touch her face. She flinched away from his fingers and then gave a silent curse. Raised her chin and faced him with defiant onyx eyes. “Meg, Meg, Meg. It’s time to shut that nasty, pretty mouth of yours and listen. You’re working for me, my pet. Any choice you might have had in the matter flew out the window the moment our blue-lipped friends put their little worm in your head.”

Crowley spent the next half hour explaining the full implications of the worm’s lingering poison, and by the time he was through, she felt like a hollowed out shell of herself. She wished he had just killed her. She didn’t want to be his tool. She refused to let her mind be used like that. Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl, but he just laughed.

She looked away. Back. She had kept the worm away from her most precious memories. If she could do that, then maybe she could prevent it from taking over her mind once she was topside, too. Maybe she could even find some help.

“Yeah,” she said, licking her lips and clenching her hands into fists to hide their shaking, “yeah, okay. When you put it that way.…”

He held up his hands, like scales weighing the options. “You do my bidding topside and get me what I want or your brain melts out of your ear in an excruciating and lingering death…? I’d say it’s a fairly easy choice.”

“I hate you, you smarmy son of a bitch,” she said pleasantly.

“Good! I would be disconcerted if you’d had a change of heart.” He patted her arm and rose. “Buck up, my pet. You’ll be getting a new meatsuit. I’ll even let you choose.”

“My cup runneth over,” she said in a dry rasp.

“Indeed it does, Meg my girl. Indeed it does.”


	3. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg must seek out Sam and Dean for help once she's topside, and as usual they aren't thrilled to see her.

**On the night that we met**  
 **You told me that you wanted**  
 **Something more from me.**  
 **And it was all that I could do.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

_Flash  
_ His grip on her forearms was bruising, crushing, and he held her against him with all the strength of his rage. His eyes swam with fury, and his Grace was a terrifying beacon in the dark.

She looked up into his transformed face and smirked. Pressed closer. “I thought you were here to smite me, Clarence. Trouble getting it up again?” She shifted and twisted her body against his and her mouth formed an amused little moue. When she spoke again, her voice was less droll, a tiny bit…something else. Edgy and breathy and… “Ohh. Poor choice of words, I guess.”

Glowing midnight eyes narrowed and he shook her once, hard. “I’ve recently been through battle. I am both drained and low on patience. Do not try me.”

“ _Try_  you?” She shook off his hold and draped her arms over his shoulders. He looked even more outraged, heavily laced with offended, but she just chuckled. “Honestly, feathers, the way you look right now, I could just eat you up.”

“Meg—”

“Mmmm, Clarence,” she murmured, and pressed her face against the side of his neck. She inhaled and ran her nose up and down his skin there. “You know, for an angel you’ve got a lot of anger in you. I can smell it, simmering away inside. It’s…mmmm…it’s intoxicating.” She flicked her tongue against him and he grabbed her again.

“Stop this,” he said, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

She lifted a brow. Her arms went around him and her fingers twined through his hair. Her mouth hovered over his and her breath was hot and sultry as she said, “Remember, angel dust,  _you’re_  the one who keeps finding  _me_.”

“I came here to kill you.”

“Hhhmm. You tell yourself that, baby. Whatever gets you through the night. Now shut up, Clarence: we’ve got unfinished business.”

He started to protest, but her kiss cut him off. She bit his lip, a sharp slice, and licked the blood away as he healed. He made a noise deep in his throat, almost like a growl, that sent a shiver straight through her. She moved against him like a hungry cat as he tangled his big hands in the black waves of her hair and pulled her head back to press rough, biting kisses against her neck.

He shrugged out of his trench coat and jacket and, impatient, she ripped his shirt open and threw it aside. She leaned away long enough to wiggle out of her own shirt and then she was back, her skin soft and hot against his.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said even as his mouth found hers again and again.

“You shouldn’t be thinking so much.” She ran her tongue around the shell of his ear and delighted in his shiver.

His strong hands stroked the smooth line of her back from shoulder blade to hip, and she arched into his touch with a purr. “It is forbidden.”

“You white hats,” she said, her voice amused and breathless. “The second anything gets the least bit fun or interesting, you put it on the banned books list. Bad news for you, tall, dark, and conflicted: I’ve always had a weakness for forbidden fruit.”

He went still. His brow furrowed, and his eyes were twin storm-tossed seas as he studied her. “You are an impossible creature.”

Her mouth twisted. “I’m a demon, Sherlock. But didn’t you hear? I’ve got a  _spark_.”

He made that  _noise_  again, and this time it  _was_  a growl, feral and raw. He pulled her against him and crushed his mouth to hers. The need for her was suddenly like an ache—he who had never had a need or an ache in his long, long existence—and he felt like the man lost in the desert who finds an oasis. He couldn’t drink his fill.

He struggled with the clasp of her bra, couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and just as she reached back to help him, his patience snapped and he tore the silly contraption off of her. It left marks on her skin that he soothed with fiery kisses, lathed with a rough tongue, and her breathing took on a new, even more interesting cadence as his lips moved up, over the curve of her breast, to find the sensitive tip and suck it into his mouth.

She tangled her fingers in his crisp black hair, her nails digging in to his scalp and running down the back of his neck in sharp trails. He hissed around her nipple and bit down. She smirked and tugged him back up to kiss him again, their tongues sliding and twisting and dueling, teeth nipping. The pure flavor of him overwhelmed her, and for a moment she was drowning—fresh-baked cookies and sweet summer melon and something darker, like fine whisky and bitter chocolate.

Two could play at that game, she thought, and ran her nails over his chest, a keen branding.

He caught her wrists in iron fists. “No more of this,” he said.

“You’re stopping… _now_?” she said with a furious gasp of disbelief.

Confusion flickered across his brow. Cleared. “No, I…no. No.”

He grasped her hips and pushed her against the wall. Their eyes met as she reached for his belt, and he didn’t stop her, only lowered his head to capture her mouth. The metal jingle of his belt seemed far away, and he barely registered the grate of zipper. Then her fingers brushed his cock and his focus was suddenly razor-sharp.

He braced his hands on either side of her and stared down into her mischievous dark eyes. She grinned, all wicked innocence, and stroked her hand up and down the hot, hard length of him. He let out a long breath, and all the blue disappeared from his eyes.

“That…must be…some variety of sin…” he managed.

“Oh, I’m sure it is, sugar. More titles off that banned list.” She lifted a brow. “You think this is nice? Wait’ll I do it with my  _mouth_.”

His expression went through several quick-fire variations. “Perhaps we should save that for another time,” he rasped.

She chuckled, low and rich. “I like the way you think, hot wings.”

His lips quirked, almost shyly, and she had to laugh at the idea of him being shy  _now_ , when she had her hand wrapped around his cock and his mouth was doing… _that_ …to her nipple…but, angels. They were from a whole other sphere. Literally.

His hands drifted down, stroking and caressing and leaving sparkling trails of sensation as they went. He found her belt. The button on her jeans. The zipper. She kicked off her boots and he shoved the jeans from her hips and grabbed her wrists again to pin them to the wall. His mouth was hot and demanding against her neck, his teeth sharp against her soft skin. She writhed, and he soothed her with long, gentle laps of his tongue that weren’t really as soothing as he meant them to be.

His hand was between her legs, and he growled a little when he hit the barrier of her panties. Her breathy snicker turned into a soft moan when he ripped the lace away.

“Dammit, Clarence, I’m not gonna have any underwear left if you keep this up.”

“I’ll fix it,” he said, distracted. Sensitive fingers ran up the inside of her thigh; stroked over the heated folds between her legs. She whimpered, and he glanced up in surprise. “You’re so wet,” he murmured.

“Ha. Uh huh,” she said, full words suddenly beyond her. She bit her lip as he slid his fingertips between her lips and up and down her slick flesh. He watched her face, fascinated, as he explored. He ran across her clit, noticed the reaction, and paused. Lingered.

“Hhhmm,” he said. He rested his thumb against the little nub and stroked. Circled. Teased. His fingers he moved lower, enjoying the slippery heat as they slid into her. Her hips rocked against his hand; her back was arched away from the wall and he ran his tongue between her breasts to catch the beads of sweat there.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured against her skin. “Let me see you. Look at me.”

Their eyes met. He curled his fingers inside of her, and she moaned. His thumb worked her clit and she pulled him closer. Pressed her body against his and ran a leg up and around his hips. He kissed her, a long slow dance of lips and tongues and teeth, and his mouth caught her moans as she shuddered, clenching around his fingers again and again like a vise.

He pulled back, surprised, and looked into her drugged eyes. She gave him a lazy grin. “I know,” she said. “Forbidden, right?”

“Ah, hm. Perhaps exceptions can be made.” He moved his hands to her hips, intoxicated by the smoky sound of her laughter, and she reached between them to grasp his cock again. Need whipped through him, sharp as a lash, and he pressed her back against the wall. She guided him, but she was so wet it was hardly necessary. He thrust into her, long and hard and slow, and his name tumbled from her lips like a prayer.

He pressed his face into the side of her neck and just held her, unmoving. She growled and wriggled against him. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Hush.”

“Clarence, I swear—!”

He stroked a hand down her hair, along her back, over her hip, down her thigh. Pressed into her and reveled in the feel of her, hot and wet and tight, wrapped around him in this completely new and novel way. No wonder it was forbidden. He rocked his hips. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him closer. No wonder, when it felt like  _this_.

She took his face in her hands and stared into his wondering eyes. A smile tilted her mouth. “Stop thinking, vapor-for-brains. Now is when you stop thinking and let instinct take over. Okay?” She squeezed him down deep inside, and he let out a strangled groan.

Instinct. He thrust his hips and her head fell back. Her fingers tangled themselves in the hair at the back of his neck and his fingers left bruising imprints in the soft flesh at her hips. He pulled her against him and set a hard, almost punishing rhythm. She whispered his name, once, his actual name, not some silly nickname, and he whispered hers back, his voice low and rough and almost angry as he said it. Everything about him was angry, furious and tense and skirting the razor’s edge of control. His Grace seethed just below the surface of every kiss and caress, and his touch burned and sparked and she shuddered beneath it in a delicious haze of pleasure delicately spiked with pain.

It was a long time later when they came together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin, and in that moment there was no pain. No rage. No thorns or Grace. Just pleasure, a moment of purity and joy…for the two unlikeliest creatures in all of Creation.

Their eyes met. He lowered his forehead to rest against hers and she slid her fingers through his hair.

“Not bad, Clarence,” she said with her usual drawl. “Wanna try it again?”

His deep blue gaze was grave and watchful.

“Yes,” he said, and she laughed like a siren.  
 _Flash_

“You okay, girlie?” the man asked her, glancing over from the driver’s seat with concern.

She rubbed her temple and shook her head. Shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. “Yeah, sorry. I just get these headaches sometimes.”

“Ahh,” he said with all the wisdom of a soothsayer, “migraines! Me too. Sumbitches wipe me out for days at a time. I see little floatin’ dots. First time I got one, thought I was losin’ my damn mind. You see floatin’ dots?”

“Flashing lights,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that sometimes, too.” He reached into the center console and dug around a minute. Emerged with a pill bottle and offered it to her. “I’m sure you probably got somethin’ with you, but just in case, you can pop two a them and feel right as rain in about a half hour.”

“Thanks, but I do have something. I think I’ll just take a nap. Wake me up when we get there.”

“Sure thing. Ain’t but another hour or so.”

She folded her coat up under her head and rested against the window. The radio hummed out a tune she didn’t recognize, something filled with restless, old-fashioned longing. Hank Williams, maybe. She hated to admit it, but she was afraid to close her eyes. She didn’t want to see another flash, especially not like the last one. That was one of the memories she’d been hiding from Crowley. She had no idea if he had direct access to her brain—he’d been cagey about how the whole thing worked—but she didn’t want to take any chances.

As much as she despised every atom of Crowley’s being, a part of her had to grudgingly admire this ridiculous scheme. He had fed her just enough information to get her good and scared. She wasn’t easily spooked, but the worm was something new, something unique, and he knew it. He had her in a corner, and he was working every bit of advantage he had.

It was exactly how she would have played it, once upon a time. What a demon she had once been, Meg thought with a twinge. Heartless and ruthless and as cruel and keen as a blade’s cold edge. But then circumstances—and a certain handsy angel—had left her irrevocably altered. She would never again be the way she was, and she didn’t know what that made her now.

Now.  _Now_  she let the old man next to her bore her to tears with stories about his grandkids and his series of coonhounds all named Joe Bob. She knew she wouldn’t snap his neck when they reached Lebanon, Kansas, because even as she toyed with the idea, a pair of disapproving indigo eyes flashed through her mind, and she felt…what? Guilty? Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, fuck that. She was a  _demon_! Guilt was a sucker’s game, and she was nobody’s sucker.

What made it ironic, what made it  _sting_ , was all the shit he had done. The war in Heaven. The Leviathan. Playing God. The lying and the bullshit and even that wall in little Sammy Winchester’s melon.

Except, really, if she were being honest, that made it…easier. Easier to let him be her personal, sexy Jiminy Cricket when she knew  _his_  soul wasn’t entirely spotless. Not that he had a soul. Not really.

He’d thrown her in holy fire. He’d kissed her (kissed the hell out of her). He’d saved her life and told her she had a  _spark_. And then he’d spent the next year trying to make something of that spark…when he hadn’t occasionally been trying to kill her. She had fought him tooth and nail, argued and scratched and spat, but he’d persisted. Then the moron went and ate a bunch of monsters, got a serious God complex, died, and lost his marbles. That’ll put a damper on a relationship.

Not that they’d had a relationship.

Not really.

Relationships of any sort were the biggest sucker’s game of all, and she was  _nobody’s_  sucker.

* * *

For once the Winchesters enjoyed a gorgeous sunny afternoon. It wasn’t raining; it wasn’t foggy; the windshield wipers were stowed away and the Impala’s windows were rolled down as the brothers roared east across Kansas. Dean drove, and Sam watched the scenery as it sped past.

They were headed home, the closest thing they’d had to home in…well, ever. Since Lawrence, and it felt good, better than they’d ever expected. Sam had just completed the first trial toward closing the Gates, and they were infected with a rare spirit of optimism, despite Dean’s reservations about the whole thing.

“Alan Alda,” Sam said.

“Dead,” Dean replied.

“Wrong.”

“No way, Sammy. You talkin’ about the guy from  _M*A*S*H_? Dead.”

“He is not. Geez, you suck at this game.”

“Whatever, man. You cheat.”

“How the hell do you  _cheat_  at Alive or Dead? It’s not like I have a computer in front of me or something.”

“You’ve got a phone, and it has Google. Cheater.”

“Dude. Have you seen me take out my phone once in the last fifty miles?”

“You also have a really good memory. You Googled ahead of time. Prepared a list in your head.”

“That is a  _lot_  of work just for one game of Alive or Dead. Anyone tell you you’re extremely paranoid sometimes?”

“Fine. Let’s just move on.” Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment before saying, “Bruce Campbell.”

“Are you kidding me? Alive. Richard Pryor.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Even I know that one. Dead. Rick Springfield.”

“Alive.”

“No way, man! Rick Springfield’s  _been_  dead.”

“He is  _not_ , Dean.”

“You cheat, Sammy. You totally cheat.”

Sam threw his hands up in frustration as Dean let out a low chuckle. “I’m just yankin’ your chain, little brother. I do suck at this game. Why do people make a  _game_  of something as morbid as who’s alive or who’s dead? Jesus. We could play that with our lives, and it would just be…in the ground, in the ground, lost out in the damn desert somewhere, hell if I know, dead but brought back to life and then dead again. Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his brow furrowing in that pensive way it had, “I guess you’re right. Next time we’ll stick to the alphabet game.”

Dean cut his eyes toward his brother and cleared his throat. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to be a downer.”

“Nah, it’s cool. You’re—Dean, watch out!”

He had already seen what caused Sam’s outburst, and he jerked the car’s wheel hard to the left. It spun away, narrowly missing the figure that had darted across the road. Dean let out a series of curses and slammed on the brakes. “Was that a  _person_?” he cried.

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam said. He ran a shaky hand back through his hair. “We gotta start wearing our seat belts.”

Dean made a face, decided that wasn’t even worth a comment, and got out of the car. The sun was setting behind them, and its late golden light lent everything a particular radiance that made picking out individual shapes difficult. It was why he hadn’t seen the guy before he jumped in front of the car in the first place. Dean shaded his eyes and looked around. Sam came around the car to join him, and a moment later his brother elbowed him in the side.

“There,” Sam said.

A slight figure stood on the shoulder, backlit by the sun, but it was obvious  _he_  was actually a  _she_. Dean paused a moment to take in the view—petite, curvy, with a corona of hair and attitude to spare judging by her cocked hip and the arrogant tilt of her head. Something about her seemed familiar.

“Dean, man, really?”

“You know you were thinking it.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the knife from his jacket. Dean retrieved his gun and nodded. The brothers took a step forward.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

She stepped closer so that the sun fell away behind her and her features came into focus. Her hair was a black waterfall that fell to just past her shoulders, and her face was a strange mix of features. Big jade-green eyes with a slight tilt; delicate nose; full-lipped, barely top-heavy mouth; high cheekbones and blunt black bangs. She wore a droll smirk on an unfamiliar face, but still they felt they knew her. 

“Oh, Deanikins,” she said in a cool drawl, “I knew you wouldn’t hit me. You’d never risk getting blood and guts all over your precious Baby…even if you did let me crash her into that SucroCorp sign last year.”

Their eyes went wide, and they stared at her with identical expressions of shock. Dean’s weapon faltered and he almost dropped it. “Meg…? Is that…?”

“Hi, boys.” She waggled her fingers at them in a coy wave. “Yes, it’s I, back from Hell after an extended vacation.”

There was a long silence while the two Winchesters just gaped at her. She waited them out with infinite patience (for her), but eventually she got bored. Crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “Let me make this simpler. Me, Meg. You, Winchesters. Questions?”

Sam blinked at her. Dean’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

“Jesus, boys, it’s not like I’m the first person to make it back from Hell. You’ve  _both_  done it!”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “but both times Cas…wait, did  _Cas_ —?”

“No!” She cut him off with a quick gesture. Took a deep breath and smiled a sharp, brittle smile. “Clarence had nothing to do with this. I haven’t seen the idiot cloud hopper. Why? Have you?”

They exchanged uneasy looks. “Not in a while,” Sam said.

Dean scowled at her and tucked his gun away. It wouldn’t do any good on a demon anyway. “Look, Meg, it’s not like we aren’t glad to see you—which, of course, we aren’t, because you’re our enemy and we hate you—but what are you doing here? And what happened to your meatsuit? Who’s this?”

“Relax, boys. I know how you feel about innocent girls becoming demon dresses. I found this one in a hospital, all sweet and cucumber-y.”

Dean looked her up and down. “I’m surprised you didn’t go taller this time. You did go bigger boobs, though, so points for that.”

“Dean! Jesus.”

“What?” he said. “It’s true.”

“Aw, Dean, thanks. So sweet of you to notice.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “They’re real, too. You don’t think they’re  _too_  big, do you? I’d hate to be vulgar.”

“Naw, they’re good. Proportional.”

“Holy shit I cannot believe we’re standing in the middle of the road having a conversation about Meg’s new boobs,” Sam said to the sky all in one breath.

“Get the stick out of your ass, peaches. You were way more fun when you didn’t have a soul.” She glanced around and wrinkled her nose. “I do feel kind of exposed out here, though. I’ll be happy to tell you boys all about how I got sprung from Hell and found a new outfit if we can go somewhere a little more private.”

“We kind of have a place—”

“Sammy, no! Have you lost your damn mind?”

“What? Come on, Dean. We need to know how she got out. If Crowley—”

“No! It’s out of the question. We can’t take a  _demon_ —” He stopped himself, cast Meg a little not-a-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and pulled Sam further away. “We can’t take a demon to the bunker,” he continued in a lower voice. “It’s our sanctuary. What if she’s  _working_  for Crowley?”

“Crowley dragged her to Hell to torture her.”

“Yeah, and she’s been there for over a year. Each month  _here_  is a year  _there_ , remember? A lot can happen under torture, Sam. Believe me.”

“Hey, Heckle and Jeckle. As much as I hate to break up this little love scene, I can probably settle it for you,” Meg called.

They turned toward her, and she cut off whatever furious comment Dean was about to lob her way with a wave. “I’ve been out for a few weeks, and I tracked you boys here. This was as good a fix as I could get, and usually once you get this far, you disappear. Poof, gone. If there’s some secret bunker you guys have around these parts, it’s warded against demons, and it’s warded hard. I probably couldn’t get close to it, much less inside.”

The Winchesters exchanged a wordless communication. Sam lifted his brows. Dean scowled. Sam’s head tilted and he frowned. Dean threw his hands in the air. Sam just stared. Dean stared back. The contest of wills lasted another thirty seconds or so, but finally Dean gave in with a disgusted snort. 

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. There’s a little cafe in town. We can have some pie. Will that do?”

“Great,” she said. “I love pie.”

“Perfect,” Dean said, dryly. He started toward the car but stopped and turned back to her. The sun was now just a bloodstained memory on the horizon, and night’s chill had taken hold. The evening star hung low to the East and the moon showed half its face. She looked strangely vulnerable in the gloaming’s semi-light, and he didn’t want to think that about her. She was a demon. A demon is never vulnerable.

“Tell us one thing,” he said. “Why us? You said you’ve been tracking us since you got out. Why?”

She looked away with a scowl. Tucked small hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket and shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. “It’s all tied up together,” she said. “Hell. The new vessel.”  _Castiel_ , she left unsaid.

She glanced back, and he could see even across the dark and the distance that her eyes were…fuck, she was scared. Scared shitless. “It’s all one big ball of wax, pretty boy.”

The brothers looked at each other across the roof of the Impala, and Dean knew Sam had seen the same thing in Meg’s eyes that he had.

“Get in the car,” Sam said. “Start talking on the way.”

“Oh, Sammy,” she said, her hips swinging as she made her way across the asphalt, “I love it when you sweet talk me. Keep it up, big boy, and maybe I’ll show you what a  _real_  demon lover can do.” She tossed him a salacious wink, and her laugh pealed out at the look on his face. It and the sound of the car doors slamming, the engine revving, filled the quiet Kansas night long after they were gone.


	4. Things Said and Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean has pie, Sam kills a demon, and Meg pleads her case.

**Don't take it so hard;**  
 **We did what we could.**  
 **There were no easy answers**  
 **To be understood.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

“So let me get this straight,” Dean said. “You’re here because you need our help.  _You_ , a demon, are here to ask  _us_ , a pair of Hunters, for help.”

She stabbed a slice of cherry pie with her fork and watched bright red juice leak out. Her mouth twisted and she let the fork fall to the plate without taking a bite. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the long and short of it. We’ve helped each other out before, Deano. It’s been a mutually beneficial relationship. I’d hoped that could continue.”

“You’ve always had something to offer us before. Inside dirt on Crowley. The ability to see Hellhounds. Cas.” He whacked off a bite of blueberry and chewed thoughtfully. “Quid pro quo, Clarice. What’re you bringin’ to the party?”

There was a cynical curl to her lips as she shook her head and grabbed her coat. “I should’ve known this was a mistake. I wasted my time coming here.” She pulled herself out of the booth, but Sam reached for her. Stopped just short of grabbing her wrist.

“Meg, wait. Just hang on.” He shot his brother a quick, beseeching look. “Tell us what happened to your other vessel.”

Their waitress trundled past. “You kids ready for your check?” she said.

“No, ma’am,” Dean said with his most charming grin. “I think my friend here just needed some more iced tea. Right, Meg?”

She glared at him, but met the waitress’ concerned look with a strained smile. “Sure…Dolly. Runnin’ dry over here, and I’ve got a powerful thirst. Thanks.” She slid back into her seat and dropped her jacket.

“Course, honey, I’ll be right back. You eat up on that pie, now.”

She hurried away, and Meg was relieved. She couldn’t tell the woman that the cherry juice seeping from the pastry reminded her of her own blood draining from her borrowed body, and every time she looked at it she felt—actually  _felt_ , and pain wasn’t something you remembered—each slice and burn Crowley had dealt out over the last year all at once. Must be another charming side effect from the worm. She dropped her napkin over the pie and pushed it away. Dean stared at her, grabbed the plate, and started eating.

“You could just smoke out,” he said between bites.

“I could,” she drawled, “but where’s the fun in that?”

“Unless you can’t,” Sam said.

“Your tea,” the waitress said as she reappeared at their table.

Sam glanced up at her with a distracted frown. “Oh, thanks. I don’t think we need anything else for now.”

Meg went still, and her head made a slow pivot. “Dolly,” she said, “you’ve changed.”

The woman’s eyes went solid black and her homely face distorted in a leer. “You stupid bitch. When Crowley hears about this—”

“Sam, the knife,” she said, strangely calm.

He had it in his hand. Dolly threw back her head, but before the demon could leave her body, Sam thrust the blade into her chest. It sparked and glowed, and she slumped to the ground. Dean stared down at the corpse, a bite of pie halfway to his mouth. Meg’s calm had shattered, and she sat shaking, small hands clenched into hard fists and muscles dancing along her tight jaw. Sam gave her a long look.

Dean dropped the fork. “Well now I’ve lost my appetite. Sam just killed a woman in front of God and every-damn-body, so I suggest we get the fuck out of here and  _you_ ”—he thrust a finger in Meg’s face—“start explaining what the hell is going on.”

There were a smattering of customers in the small cafe, and they had all turned toward the commotion. The strange part was that no one had screamed or ran or called the cops when Sam stabbed a seemingly innocent waitress. The silence was eerie and deafening.

“All demons, right?” Dean said without turning around.

Meg nodded, green eyes huge in her new face.

“How many?”

“Five,” she said.

“Two,” said Sam.

“Seven. Think we can take seven before they smoke out?”

“With just the knife? No chance.”

“They’re people,” Meg said.

Dean blinked at her.

“The meatsuits. They’re people. Dolly was a person. We talked to her not five minutes ago. You’re talking about murdering seven  _people_.”

“Did I just get zapped to the Twilight Zone? Since when is a demon—and you of all the damn demons—giving lectures on morality? You sic’ed Hellhounds on us, for fuck’s sake.”

Her brow creased. “That was before.”

“Before what?” Sam said.

She made an impatient gesture. “It doesn’t matter. What’s the point of killing one or two of them if we can’t take them all anyway?”

“We’re talking about saving your bacon here, you crazy bi—”

“Dean,” Sam said with a frown. “I thought you didn’t want Crowley to find out where you are,” he said to Meg.

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated. “He knows exactly where I am. I’d just rather he didn’t know I’m with you.”

“This is creepin’ me out,” Dean said. “Why are they just sitting there?”

“They’re probably waiting.”

“For what? Fuckin’ Godot?”

“Orders,” she said.

“Then why are  _we_  just sitting here?”

“Good question,” said Sam. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”  

“Where do we go?” he continued as they hurried from the restaurant. “If demons are looking for her, they’ll find her. Especially now that I killed this one.”

“God dammit,” Dean said. “I guess we don’t have any choice. Sammy, I think we gotta take Catwoman to the Bat Cave.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Okay, Robin, your delusions aside, there’s still the tiny problem of the wards. Demon, remember?”

“One problem at a time,” Dean said. He opened the Impala’s trunk and tossed Sam a small bag. Tucked its twin into his jacket and retrieved three sawed off shotguns. “Get in. We’ll figure it out when we get there.” He handed one of the guns to Meg. “Salt rounds,” he said, “so don’t go gettin’ any ideas.”

“Ideas? Me? Sugar, I’m a blank slate. I leave all the thinkin’ to—aahhhh!!” The flash came like a bolt of lightning to her brain. She dropped the gun, gripped her skull so hard her fingers turned white, and crumpled into a writhing ball of agony on the dirty concrete.

_Flash  
_ “This is a terrible idea.”

She cast him a wicked grin as she fell against him, her dark hair raining around them in a soft cascade. “Oh, sugar, you say that every damn time. I’m gonna get a complex.”

“It isn’t personal,” he said.

“Then maybe you should quit trackin’ me down at all hours of the day and night. I have a life, you know. A  _reputation_. If someone saw us together—”

“Don't even jest,” he said as his dark brows furrowed. He flipped them over and braced his elbows on either side of her. “I’m in the middle of a war. If Raphael found out—”

“Raphael, Raphael, Raphael. Yawn, Clarence. I’m sure  _Raphael_  has a few skeletons in his big, bad archangel closet.”

He stared down at her, his midnight gaze so intense she fought the urge to squirm. Instead she pressed a small hand against his chest and pushed. He rolled away with a grunt of protest that she stifled by curling up against him and twining a leg around him. He tugged a lock of her hair free and stretched it out tight between them. 

“That is not what I meant,” he said as though the interruption hadn’t happened.

“No?”

“No.”

“Enlighten me, O fount of Heavenly wisdom.”

Irritation flashed across his still features, but it faded as he toyed with her hair. “He would use you to get to me,” he said. “Hurt you. Kill you, even. He would have no scruples in that regard. I would…spare you that.”

She tried to make a joke of it, but the words died on her lips. Finally she said, her voice strained with something unknown, “Spare me…or spare you?”

“Spare us both, perhaps.”

A pause.

“Anything to win, huh, Clarence?”

His Grace flared once, a furious lash, and she swatted his shoulder.

“Watch it, featherbrain. That  _hurts_.”

“It’s not about victory, Meg,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s about  _you_.” There was a great deal he left unsaid, that he hoped she understood:  _You keep me sane when this war would make a madman of me. If Raphael took you from me, there would be nothing left to tie me here. No tether. I would be lost._

Her skeptical eyes answered his:  _What about Dean and Sam? Don’t those two bozos keep you grounded? Especially Bozo Number One._

He shook his head as though they were having the conversation aloud. “No,” he said. He looked away, expression stricken. “They no longer trust me as they once did.”

“Should they, Castiel?” she said. “No bullshit. No games. Should they trust you?”

He scrubbed his hands back through his hair, and when he looked at her again his face was as bleak and dejected as she had ever seen it. “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

Her mouth quirked, an ironic little smirk. She ran her nails down his chest and lifted his chin until his desolate blue gaze met hers. “Oh, Clarence. Haven’t we all? The fallen angel and the outcast demon. What have we done that  _isn’t_ terrible?”  
 _Flash_

“What the hell is happening to her?” Sam cried.

“Do I look like I know?” Dean said. “She’s having a seizure or something. Can demons have seizures?”

“We should…move her…or not move her…or…shit, Dean, what do we do?”

He looked around the empty parking lot, at a loss. “We can’t stand around here waiting for the cavalry to show up.”

“Can we risk moving her?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said.

Sam knelt next to her and rested his hands against hers. She had an iron-tight grip on her skull, but he eased his fingers through her hair and gradually her hold lessened. “It’s okay,” he said in the soothing voice he used on angry dogs and kids. “It’s okay, just relax.” He glanced up at his brother. “We gotta get her back to the bunker,” he said. “Something’s happening to her, and I don’t think it’s natural.”

“Yeah, Sam, she’s a  _demon_. Ya  _think_?!”

Sam lifted the small form in his arms. “Let’s get out of here. I think whatever’s happening might be killing her.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

_Flash  
_ His big hands stroked through her hair as they had done the first time he kissed her, and she leaned into his touch with a low growl, almost a purr. “I like this,” he said.

“Hhmm?” She felt lazy and drugged with pleasure and couldn’t form whole words. He had magic hands.

“Your hair,” he said. “The color. The texture. The scent.” He fanned it over her bare back and it fell against her skin soft as a kiss. “I can’t imagine you with fair hair, or red. The dark suits you so well.”

She opened one eye a crack and craned her neck to watch him. She loved (the word slipped by without her even noticing, and that was a danger she would realize later) to watch his face when it was like this, when he forgot about his stupid war and how  _forbidden_  this was and just got caught up.

“My last vessel was blond,” she said, “but the Winchesters exorcized me and she died.” She frowned. “It didn’t help that they’d thrown me out a window first.”

His expression changed. “Ah,” he said. “What if you left this one?”

She opened her eyes all the way and met his gaze with frank honesty. “She would die, Cas. You threw me in holy fire. What do you think that does to a human body? Plus I’ve been stabbed a couple of times. Shot.” She shrugged a shoulder.

“Is that why you keep her?” he said.

“That’s a weird question. A meatsuit is a meatsuit.”

“Meg.”

She flipped onto her back and let out an annoyed sigh. Crossed her arms over chest and tossed her hair back. “What, Clarence? Are you asking if I’m attached to my meatsuit? That would be pretty stupid.”

“Yet you went back to this vessel after Bobby exorcised you. You could have chosen another. You healed her after I threw you in the holy fire. That was probably exhausting work. You could have abandoned her and found someone else.”

“I like her attitude.”

“I would think that’s your attitude.”

“Mostly. But it’s hers, too, a little bit. And she looks good in black. Blond Meg couldn’t wear black because she was so pale. It’s like Shakespeare, you know?  _Though she be but little, she is fierce_. I like that.”

“You like your meatsuit.”

“Shut up, Clarence.”

A pause.

“I like it, too.”

She smirked. “I’ve noticed.”

His expression clouded. He reached for her. Cupped her face in his hands. “You should know I can see you, Meg, no matter what form you wear.” He ran a thumb over her brow bone. Across her mouth. Down the bridge of her nose. “And you are beautiful.”

Her smirk deepened into an actual smile, heavily laced with irony. “Shut up, Clarence,” she murmured.  
_Flash_

“Not…a fucking…seizure…you morons!” she muttered against Sam’s chest.

“Look, she’s alive,” Dean said.

Even through the pain, Meg managed to glower at him. “No need to sound so disappointed,” she said between deep, gasping breaths. “Ugh, put me down. I can walk.”

Sam wasn’t entirely sure he believed her, but he set her on her feet anyway. She wobbled, but shoved away from him when he tried to steady her. “I’m fine,” she snapped.

“Meg, what happened? Are you okay?” he said.

“I just told you I’m fine.”

“You didn’t look fine ten seconds ago, and you really don’t look fine now,” Dean said. “You look like something a Hellhound just went a few rounds with, minus all the blood. You wanna tell us what’s going on, or are we gonna play twenty questions?”

She rubbed her forehead and dug a bottle out of her pocket. Swallowed a pill dry and stowed the bottle away. “Short version? Crowley did some weird fuckin’ mojo on me. It’s got me all…scrambled. I get these flashes. Memories.”

“Memories?” Sam said. “Of what?”

Their eyes met, and for a second he saw two Megs: the tough, brittle demon-self she always showed them, and someone else. He blinked, because the second Meg was…scared. Vulnerable and hurting and so, so… _sad_ , though that seemed far too small a word for it. “Meg…?”

She looked away, and the moment shattered. “Nothing I want to talk about,” she said. “Nothing I wanted Crowley to know, which is why it hurts so fucking much when they hit me. I kept them hidden, and now they’re all busting through like water through a cracked dam. You know what that’s like, right, big boy?”

Sam only nodded, grim-faced.

“So that’s why you’re here?” Dean said. “You want us to help you undo Crowley’s mojo?”

“That’s part of it. I figure you guys probably have the skinny on a spell that can fix me.” She took a deep breath. “But I also have to find Cas.”

“Cas?” Dean said. “Why Cas?”

“It’s a long story. I can tell you the whole of it back at your hidey hole. For now…look, I know I’ve been a raving bitch to you. I know I’ve done some really shitty things. All I can say is…fuck it, there’s nothing I can say. Nothing will make it okay or right or even the slightest bit better, so all I can say is please. Please help me because I have no place else to go and Cas is your friend and he was sort of my friend, too…once.”

Her face twisted like the words tasted bad even as she said them. She rested her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. Met their surprised stares with a challenging, narrow-eyed glare.

Dean glanced at Sam. He shrugged. Sam shrugged back.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said.

Meg looked nonplussed. “What, that’s it?”

Dean’s mouth quirked. “You said  _please_. We like that. Now get in the damn car before Crowley shows up and starts makin’ stupid ass speeches.”  


	5. The Fickleness of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas forgets things he should remember. Meg remembers things she'd rather forget. And in between, the boys try to get Meg into their super-secret bunker.

**I remember your face, like a child;**  
 **The way that you blushed,**  
 **The way that you smiled.**  
 **Now it's all that I can do.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

Castiel had sat in this park before. The air had been cold and sharp, the ground white with snow…as it was now. And, like now, back then he had come here seeking answers. He needed a moment of respite in the swirling torment of confusion that his life had become. How had this happened again? How had he found himself so lost?

Purgatory had been his chance at redemption. His hope. Ironic, considering its purpose, but he’d never intended to stay there forever. Just…longer than he had. Somehow he’d ended up back here before his time, before he was ready, but his mission of redemption had continued.

And he’d been doing well, hadn’t he? He’d healed the sick. Saved the innocent. He’d hunted with Dean and Sam. He’d  _helped_  people.

Then, Samandriel.

_He was compromised_ , a voice said. It didn’t sound like his voice, not quite.  _You had no choice_.

_You_. Not  _I_. Not  _I had no choice_.

Samandriel was good. If he had been compromised, if that were true, surely something could have been done to help him. Heaven had resources. After everything Castiel had done, everything he’d been through, why had his first instinct been to kill his brother, one of the few left who believed in him?

_It wasn’t you, you featherbrained moron_ , a different voice said. That one sounded more familiar, but it still wasn’t his. His mouth curved in a wry smile. There she was again, all thorns and fury, popping into his head when he least expected it to toss out a sarcastic comment or sharp little dig.

Meg.

Sometimes he wondered why he felt so comfortable around the prickly demon and why she, of all creatures, had stayed with him through his madness. He had a hazy recollection of asking her once, but she wouldn’t answer.

He stirred on his bench. What had happened to her after the showdown at SucroCorp? He hadn’t even thought to look since he’d been back from Purgatory, and neither of the Winchesters had mentioned her. After how she’d looked out for him, he could at least check on her. Make sure she was all right.

He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he’d forgotten the notion completely. The idea was gone from his mind as though it had never been, and so the angel Castiel continued to sit on his bench in the cold, empty park and brood into the watchful silence.

* * *

“That’s it?” she said with a skeptical tilt to her head. “That’s your Bat Cave? It looks like a concrete hobbit hole.”

“Hey,” Dean said, “don’t knock it. It’s fucking brilliant in there.”

She glanced at Sam. “He’s not lying. It’s pretty awesome,” he said.

“Okay. Great. How do I get in?”

There was a long silence as they mulled it over. “Okay,” Dean said, “okay, how about this? How about Sam opens the door, and you…you just, like,  _run_  in? Just run.”

“Uh huh,” she said. “And I hit a wall of wards and go bouncing off like a pinball. Or maybe end up frying like a fly in one those bug buzzer things. Good plan, genius.”

“We could run in together. Maybe that’ll confuse the wards, and you might make it.” He smiled at her, all innocent eyes and white teeth.

She rolled her eyes and let out an impatient snort. “If this is all the help you’re going to be, I think I’d rather just let my brain melt.”

“Nobody’s brain needs to melt,” Sam said. “You two stay out here. I’m gonna go inside and look at the logs. Surely the Letters guys have brought demons here before, for like questioning or study or something. They had to get them in somehow.”

“Now we’re talkin’, big boy. Brains and brawn; I like that in a man.”

His face creased. “Right,” he said. “I’m going in.” He hesitated. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

Dean held up his hands. “I’m cool if she is.”

She lifted her brows, shrugged, and leaned back against the car. “I’m a cucumber, remember?”

“Right,” Sam said again, doubtfully. “I’ll be back. Soon.” He disappeared inside with one last, troubled look over his shoulder, and Dean and Meg were left to their awkward silence.

He shuffled his feet. Broke open the shotgun to check the shells inside. Studied the sky. Polished the blade of his knife. Cleared his throat and paced a few circles around the car.

She studied her fingernails and did her best to ignore him. She wished she’d had time for a manicure before setting off on the Great Winchester Caper. Her nails were a mess, and they could really use a jolt of color. Black was classic, but she was more in the mood for a midnight blue, or maybe—

“If you’re lookin’ for Cas, why don’t you just call him?” Dean said, interrupting her musings.

“Angels don’t typically answer prayers from demons,” she said without looking up.

“You aren’t just any demon. Not to Cas. Hell if I know why, but the little dweeb seems to have a soft spot for you. He’d probably answer if you called.”

She raised her head slowly and their eyes met. His were hard and bright, and the challenge was evident in the cant of his head and set of his shoulders. “What’s wrong, Deanikins? Is your boyfriend ignoring your texts? Oh, sweetie. That usually means he’s just not that into you. There’s a book about it and everything.”

“I’m about done with your bullshit, Meg. You hide behind that big mouth of yours, but I saw the look on your face out there on the road. I saw what happened to you back at that cafe, and I’m not talking about Crowley’s memory mojo.”

“No?” She pushed away from the car and stepped toward him. “Then what  _are_  you talking about, Dean, because I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“Something has you scared utterly shitless. I’ve seen you on the run before, and you were spooked back then, but that was nothing compared to now. What’s Crowley got on you? What’s he threatened you with? More torture?”

Her mouth curled at the corners and she looked away. Shook her head and ran her hands back through slick black hair. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, pretty boy.”

“Try me.”

A silence fell, strained and harsh, and the tension roiled off her in waves. He watched and waited. She struggled to find words—any words—that might come close to making sense of it all.

“Your will is not your own,” she finally said. “Pain is your constant companion. Memory is your enemy. Fear motivates all you do.” She looked up at him, and her face was a desert, wasted and desiccated and bleak. “Your will is not your own, and your greatest enemy, the creature you despise more than any other, has ordered you to bring him Sam. Bring him Sam or die.”

Her voice reminded him for the first time that she was an ancient creature, a creature of old, old evil. He stared at her, stunned into a new kind of silence. Evil, yeah, but also something else. Something…more. Nothing he wanted to see. He blinked.

“You die, Meg,” he said. “It’s simple. You die.”

Her eyes narrowed and her head tilted. “I would die if I could. But he won’t let me.”

“Crowley?”

She smiled, wan and tired, but with a flicker of the Meg he knew. “Fuck Crowley. He’d be happy to watch me howl in agony as my brain melted even if it meant he didn’t get what he wants. No. Everybody’s favorite trench coat wearing angel. Castiel. I made him a promise once. Crazy featherbrain doesn’t remember it, of course, but still. A promise is a promise.”

“You’re a demon,” he said, face twisting with incredulity.

“And you’re a racist jerk. So?”

“I’m not racist!”

“You don’t think I can keep a promise just because I’m a demon. That’s racist.”

“You’re  _evil_ , Meg.”

“A little bit, sure,” she said with a shrug. “At least I’m not racist.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not—”

“Hey, guys, I think I got something!” Sam called from the doorway.

“Thank God. I was about to give in and kill her.”

“You and what army, bowlegs?”

“How about  _salt rounds_  and  _knife_?” he said, holding up each weapon in turn.

“How about  _fuck_  and  _you_?” she said sweetly.

“How about  _shut_  and  _up_?” Sam said through gritted teeth. “And get the hell over here before I shoot you both.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said. “We’re comin’. Keep your pants on, Sammy.” He gestured for Meg to proceed him—he wasn’t about to have her at his back when she was looking at him like that, eyes spitting jade fire and full mouth set in a thin white line—and fell in behind her. They joined Sam at the door, and he showed them the book in his hands.

Meg glanced at it, and her expression became even more troubled. “I don’t like the look of this, boy Friday. You got anything else in your Cave o’ Wonders?”

He pulled himself to his full height—which was considerable, obviously, and something he rarely  _used_ —and drew in a deep breath. Fixed her with a hard glare that pinned her in place like a bug under a microscope. “This was all I could find on short notice. I’m sure I could go back in there and spend another few  _hours_  combing the archives, but I’m thinking time is of the essence here. A few more flashes like the one you got back at the diner, and you might end up with pudding where your brains used to be. You gonna listen to what I have to say, or take your chances somewhere else?”

Her mouth softened enough to curve into a droll smile. “I love it when you grow a spine, kid. It gives me tingles in all my secret places. I’m listening. Keep talking.”

He nodded, a quick jerk of his head, and relaxed a little. “This symbol has to be placed on your person somehow. Like…permanently.”

“You mean a tattoo? Hum. That’ll be a surprise if she ever wakes up.”

“A tattoo would work,” Sam said. “There’s actually a whole setup inside, if you can believe it. But we have to get you in first.”

“Do either of you boys know how to do tattoos?”

“How hard can it be?” Dean said. “Sam’s got a pretty steady hand, and that symbol isn’t real complicated. Yeah, we could do it.”

“Okay. A Sam Winchester original. How exciting. But you said the tattoo stuff is inside. That doesn’t help us out here.”

“Right,” Sam said. He hesitated. Shut the book and ran a hand back and forth through his hair. “There’s a way. A temporary way. It’s gonna hurt, and you’re really not gonna like it.”

Her head fell back. “Fuck,” she said to the sky.

“What?” Dean said. “Are we just gonna run her in? That was my idea in the first place!”

“No, Dean,” Sam said. “She still has to have the symbol to get past the wards.”

“You’ll have to cut it into me,” she said, “and you’ll have to use that fucking knife or it’ll heal the second you do it.” She lowered her chin and gave him a sardonic smile. “Well, Deanikins, looks like you get your wish.” Lifted the hem of her black shirt to expose the smooth white skin beneath. “Better get cuttin’.”

“Me?” he said. “Why me? Sam’s the one with the steady hand.”

“Meg,” Sam said, brow creased in alarm, “are you sure about this?”

“Let me break it down for you. This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. I can pretty much guarantee it’s gonna set off another flash. That means someone better have one hell of a hold on me. That someone will be Sam. Tenderhearted puppy that he is, if he were cutting, the moment he saw what he was doing to me, he would  _stop_  and try to make it all better. Dean, Alastair’s one-time golden boy, will put his head down and get done what needs to get done. Won’t you, Dean?”

His jaw clenched at the reminder, but he knew she was right. “Yeah. I will.” He took the book from Sam and knelt in front of her.

“Good. Sam, grab my arms. Don’t be afraid that you’re going to hurt me. You won’t. Dean.” He looked up and their eyes met. A moment of understanding passed between them. “Make it fast.”

Grim-faced, he gave a short nod. Flipped the book open to the page Sam had marked. For a moment the blade was cool against her skin, and then the pain blazed white-hot and pure, and her scream shattered the quiet Kansas night.

_Flash  
_ He found her behind the cabin. Her shirt and jacket were in a puddle beside her, and the blood was a garish red slash against her white skin. His brow furrowed and he took a step closer. “I asked if you were hurt,” he said.

She jumped and nearly fell off the log she’d been perched on. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the bloody shirt. Pressed it against her chest. “Holy shit, Clarence, you scared the piss outta me. Don’t sneak up on people like that. Not when we’re in the middle of a war.”

“Why did you lie to me?” he said.

She shrugged a shoulder and turned her back on him. “You don’t like violence. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“You being hurt upsets me.”

“Exactly.”

He took another step. Studied the graceful lines of her back, interrupted by the navy blue satin straps of her bra and the crimson slashes of the wound, and his eyes narrowed. She was made so beautifully, like a classical sculpture, all curves and shadows and alabaster. Beneath it all her true form stirred, and it was beautiful, too, even more so in contrast to the cool human exterior.

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “What are you staring at, featherbrain?”

“You. Your form is familiar to me.”

Her mouth twisted in an ironic half-smile, hidden so that he couldn’t see. “Of course it is. I sat by your bed and watched you drool on yourself for the past few months.”

“Yes. But it’s more than that.”

“I’m not really in the mood to reminisce, Clarence. Let’s save this trip down memory lane for another time, okay?” When she finally turned around she’d mastered her expression, and she tugged her shirt on with a scowl.

He reached for her. “Let me heal you.”

She took a step back. “I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.” She grabbed her jacket and tossed it over her shoulder. Sauntered back toward the cabin as though every moment of the brief conversation hadn’t been like a knife to the gullet.

He watched her go with a puzzled frown, the hazy ghosts of memory teasing the edges of his mind.

Impossible, exquisite creature. What wasn’t she telling him?

_Flash  
_ “You idiot. You moron. You featherbrained, arrogant, asshole  _angel_! Why didn’t you call me? Why did you…fuck you, Castiel, if you die—!” She pounded a small fist against his shoulder, and his head lolled in response. It was his only response, and she cried out in impotent rage. Desdemona echoed with a loud, distressed mew, but Meg ignored her. 

She pressed her hand against the wound that seeped blood and Grace and ignored the searing pain. He wouldn’t die. He would heal. It wasn’t bad, not truly. “Cas, come on, talk to me. Tell me what I can do.”

His lids fluttered open, lashes sooty against his unnaturally pale skin, and she was alarmed by how dark and hazy his eyes were. He raised a hand to her face and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “You’re crying,” he said, his voice a ghost of itself.

“Fuck you, Clarence, I am not.”

“Oh. You’ve sprung a leak, then.”

Her head tilted. “Did you just make a joke? You’re  _dying_  and  _now_  is when you grow a sense of humor?”

He shifted, and his face contorted in a grimace. “I don’t think I will die.”

“No? You don’t  _think_? I’m glad you have such sangfroid about the situation, Castiel, but pardon me if I’m a little  _upset_  to have you suddenly show up on my doorstep after  _weeks_  of nothing, and you’re bleeding and…leaking light or whatever the fuck you want to call it and then you just…pass out like a dumbass sack of potatoes. I thought you were dead, except there weren’t any giant wings ruining my rug.”

He eyed her. “You were concerned.”

“I’m pissed.”

“Your anger stems from concern.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back with a furious scowl. “It’s war, Cas,” she muttered with ill grace. “You can’t just disappear. I thought you were dead. And then I thought you  _were_  dead. In my fucking living room.”

He stirred. Grabbed her leg and tugged her toward him. She resisted his pull and glared at him. “Fuck you, cloud hopper.”

“Nothing so strenuous. I’m still healing.”

“Another joke? This must be a record.”

“Please, Meg,” he said, voice quiet and naked.

She tried to maintain her fury, but she felt it slipping away, and that scared her. She was a demon. A demon was fueled by anger and hate. What was he doing to her? What was he making of her? She let out a little sigh and gave in. Curled up against the long, solid length of him and took in a deep breath of his unique scent, the scent that had haunted her since the day he’d thrown her in holy fire.

He buried his face in her hair and breathed deep. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She pulled his arm around her and twined her fingers through his. “Do it again and I kill you myself.” 


	6. Truth and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg remembers happier times and an important promise. Once she's awake, Sam and Dean demand the truth from her.

  
**The way that you screamed,**  
 **The way that you cried.**  
 **The way that you wipe your eyes**  
 **And fall against my side.**  
 **The way that you told,**  
 **Told me I was wrong.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"  


_Flash  
_ “I think we need a cat.”

All eyes pivoted toward him, but he just blinked back, oblivious to their consternation.

“Doesn’t this place feel one species short?”

_Jesus, Clarence_ , she thought.  _From the mouths of babes._

_Flash  
_ “What. The hell. Is that?!” she demanded.

He glanced up from the squirming ball of black fur in his arms and grinned. “It’s a cat. I’ve named her Desdemona.”

“Like from  _Othello_? Jesus, Clarence. Where did you find a cat?”

“Outside. She’s hungry. Do we have any tuna?”

“I think we’re fresh out. What are we supposed to do with a  _cat_?”

He blinked. “Feed her. Stroke her and make her purr.”

“Castiel.” She sat up in the tangle of sheets and brushed her hair out of her face. “You have  _me_  to stroke and make purr. I ask again: why do you need a cat? It’s gonna get fleas everywhere. It’ll shed. I’ll have to take care of it when you’re off fighting Raphael.”

His eyes were grave and thoughtful as he studied her state of  _déshabillé_. “I do enjoy that aspect of our relationship,” he said in that particular rough voice that turned her insides to liquid.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and offered him a sinful grin. “Then lose the cat, sugar, and get over here.”

He looked down into the cat’s wide amber eyes and then back up at Meg. Heaved a regretful sigh. “I’m sorry, Meg. She needs us.”

She snorted and fell back against the pillows. Glowered at the ceiling and listened to him make dopey little noises at the stupid cat. Finally she shoved back the sheets and jumped out of bed. Threw on her clothes and stomped toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“To get tuna.” She glanced back at him. Rolled her eyes. “And flea stuff.”

He looked so immediately thrilled, like a small child who’s just been given candy, that she felt her thorny heart soften in spite of itself. She shook her head and walked back to him. Ruffled his hair and planted a kiss against his forehead.

“You’re a featherbrained moron, Clarence, and one day that soft heart of yours is gonna get us both killed. I guess in the meantime it’ll just get us fleas.”

“Desdemona doesn’t have fleas, Meg. Look at her. She’s a Queen amongst her kind. Like you. Besides…doesn’t this place feel one species short?”

_Flash  
_ “Okay, vapor-for-brains, that’s enough wallowing on the floor. I’m getting a crick in my neck. Time to get up.” She crawled out from underneath his arm and rose. Grabbed both his hands in hers and hauled him to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but she held him in place until he steadied.

“Get,” she said when Desdemona tried to weave between his legs. “Are you trying to kill him?”

The cat hissed, and Meg hissed back. The two had never reached much of a rapport. Cas managed a tired, affectionate grin and let Meg lead him toward the bedroom, stepping over the protective cat as they went.

“Not yet,” she said, steering him away from the bed and toward the bathroom. “We’ve gotta get you cleaned up first.”

“I can do that.”

“Don’t waste the energy. You need to heal.” She took his trench coat and jacket and hung them from the hook on the back of the door. Removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt with detached, clinical efficiency. The wounds crisscrossing his chest made her face crumple with rage, and he brushed his fingers across her cheek.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said.

“It looks pretty fuckin’ bad.”

“I will recover.”

She took a deep breath and turned away to dampen a washcloth in the sink. “That’s not really the point, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

Her dark eyes snapped fury when she faced him again, but her touch was gentle as she dabbed the blood from his skin. “Who did this to you?”

“Raphael’s allies.”

“Angels. Your brothers and sisters.”

He looked pained. “Yes.”

“Where were  _your_  allies?”

He hesitated. “I am largely alone, now.”

She rinsed the cloth and started again. “Because of the terrible thing you did.”

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t bother to answer. His eyes told her everything she needed to know anyway. They usually did. He took her hand. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. “Meg, look at me.”

“I’m busy.”

He blinked, and the blood was gone from his skin as though it had never been.

“Goddammit, Clarence! I told you to save your energy!”

“It was nothing. Meg, please. This is important. I need your promise.”

She lifted her chin and offered him a challenging glare. “I’m a demon. What exactly is my promise worth?”

“ _Your_  promise? Everything.”

The quiet intensity in his voice left her unnerved. She dropped the washcloth into the sink and pushed past him to escape the tiny bathroom. He followed her, and a moment later his hands were on her again. He shook her once, and she shoved him away. Raked her nails down his cheek and left a trail of blood.

“I don’t know what you think I am, Clarence, but you’re wrong. I’m just a demon. Evil and vile. You called me an abomination once, and you were right. That’s what I am. It’s what we all are. Why are you even here? Why are you  _ever_  here? Why don’t you just go? Don’t you have a war to fight?”

He made a frustrated gesture. “That’s why I’m here! In case I don’t succeed. In case Crowley—”

“Crowley! What does Crowley have to do…” Realization struck like a hammer’s blow, and for a moment she could only stare. When she found her voice again, the rage was gone, replaced by hollow shock. “Oh, fuck, you idiot. You made a deal, didn’t you?”

He went silent. She pressed her face into her hands and stood, despairing. “Oh, Castiel,” she whispered.

“He’s showing me the way to Purgatory, and how to open the door,” he said, voice low and fast. “We’re going to split the souls there. With that power I can defeat Raphael. I can win. It can be over for good, Meg. It’s the only way.”

Her arms fell to her sides like dead things, and her face was contorted with grief. “No, Cas. No. There are a thousand paths. A million. Crowley’s gift is that he makes  _his_  path look like the only one.”

He looked away. “Will you turn against me, too? Like Rachel and Balthazar? Like Sam and Bobby? Like…Dean?”

She let out a pained laugh. Stepped closer. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin as she turned his head toward her. “Are you kidding? You made a deal with my biggest enemy. I once worshipped at the altar of yours. I think that kinda makes us even, don’t you?”

He pulled her against him and tangled his fingers in her dark hair. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck and wrapped her arms around him. “What’s the promise, Cas?”

“Stay alive, Meg. Hide. Lie. Kill or cheat or run, I don’t care. Just stay alive, no matter what happens.”

Some of the tension drained out of her. Stay alive. That’s what she was good at. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “I can do that.”

He took her face in his hands and his starless midnight eyes bored down into hers. “Promise me. No matter what.”

“I promise, Clarence. No matter what.” 

The words were so easy to say, glib and thoughtless as they tripped off her tongue. She had no idea, as she said them, the gold-and-onyx chains she was forging between them, chains that would bind them even after he was reborn and had forgotten everything but the vaguest shape of her.  
_Flash_

When she opened her eyes Meg had no idea where she was. She sat up gingerly and waited for the room to stop its slow spinning. When things finally solidified around her she took stock, starting with her person. Her head had its usual ache, deep and steady and sickening. The wounds in her stomach were healed, and she was fully clothed except for her leather jacket (it hung on a rack by the door) and her boots. Her feet were bare and cold.

The room was small but comfortable, spare and simple. She was on a plain cot with soft, clean-smelling sheets and a woolen blanket. A wooden desk was set against one wall, its surface empty, a simple, straight-backed chair pushed beneath it. There were no decorations, no pictures on the walls. The door was slightly ajar, and as she watched it opened further and Sam Winchester’s big form filled the space.

He held a tray bearing a glass of water and a plate with a sandwich and an apple. His eyes as they met hers were surprised and a little sheepish. “You’re awake,” he said.

For once she didn’t have a smartass retort, so she just nodded. “Yeah. What happened?”

He set the tray on the bedside table and made a gesture toward the desk chair. She waved her permission and he pulled it closer. She reached for the water as he sat. “You had another one of those fit things, just like you thought. It happened as soon as Dean started cutting.”

“I guess it worked, though. The demon mutilation.”

He made a face at her choice of words. “Yeah, it did. You passed out, and we got you in here. I did the tattoo while you were unconscious. It seemed easier that way.”

She wiggled her toes and gave him a questioning look. He pointed at the outside of her left ankle, just where it curved into the arch of her foot. “I wanted somewhere inconspicuous, but I didn’t want…er, I mean.…You were passed out, so I couldn’t  _ask_ , and I didn’t want it to be, er…awkward…?” He cleared his throat, and she grinned.

“You’re adorable when you squirm, big boy,” she said with a hint of her usual drawl. “Gives me all  _sorts_  of ideas.”

His face creased. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know what. It makes me uncomfortable, and you don’t even really mean it. I mean, yeah, maybe you did, once, but you haven’t in a long time. So why keep it up?”

Her brows quirked. “Once upon a time I did it just because it makes you uncomfortable. Now?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Habit, I guess. Keeping up appearances. I’m a demon, Sam. What else would I do?”

He studied her for a long time, and something in his eyes made  _her_  want to squirm. Finally he rose and moved the chair back to where he’d found it. He started toward the door, but as he reached it he stopped and looked back at her. “I think sometimes you forget I had you in my head for a week. You can’t fool me, Meg. You think you can, but you can’t.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Your heart’s not in any of it. You go through the motions, say all the right things, but it’s just words. You flirt with me and snap at Dean, but you’re a shadow of yourself. Where are you? What did Crowley do to you? What has you so scared?”

She was surprised Dean hadn’t told him. “Go ask your brother.”

“Yeah. He told me what you said.”

Ah. Of course he had. “So…then you know.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

She held out her hands. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“I know what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it first hand. I can’t believe Crowley could control your will. I just can’t.”

Her mouth quirked. “Your faith in me is touching, peaches.” The smile faded. “In truth, he’s not completely. Why do you think I’m here? But as the flashes get stronger, so does he. The pain gets worse every day. Every minute. I’m a demon; pain is our bread and butter; but even demons have our limit.”

“It’s Cas, isn’t it?”

She went still, but her expression remained neutral, her voice cool. “What?”

“Crowley wants you to find Cas. He’s pissed that Cas took half the tablet. Pissed about Samandriel. He wants to know how he got out of Purgatory. He’s sent you up here to hunt him down.”

Oh. Wait, what? “Purgatory? When was Clarence in Purgatory?”

Sam cocked his head. “Crowley didn’t tell you?”

“Crowley told me about a tablet and a prophet and an angel named Samandriel. That’s about it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said after a brief hesitation, “you better come with me. Dean’s gonna want to be in on this.”

“What does Dean have to do with Purgatory?”

“They were there together. Dean and Cas. For a year.”

“Holy shit,” she said. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

* * *

 

“So how much do you know about Purgatory?”

“I always thought it was just a story. You know, kinda like Heaven and Hell are to a lot of humans. Sure, there are some of us who believe in it—like, really believe—but others just think it’s a sort of metaphor.”

“It ain’t no metaphor, sweetheart. It’s a living, breathing, bloody place, and I spent a year of my life there playing  _Lord of the_ motherfucking  _Flies_  in Technicolor three-dee. Fuckin’ sucked.”

“Sounds like you had the time of your life.”

His grin flashed, briefly, before he controlled it. “It had its moments.”

“What about you, gigantor?” she said to Sam. “What were you doing while big brother was trapped in this Hunter’s Disneyland? Searching frantically, I assume?”

The brothers exchanged a look. Dean’s mouth thinned. Sam let out a huff. Meg glanced between them and stifled a laugh. “Okay, sore subject. Sorry I brought it up.” Her eyes sparkled. “But not really.”

Dean waved it away. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I got out and Cas stayed behind. On purpose. He said he had more atoning to do.”

“Sounds like him. Angels,” she said with a disgusted roll of her eyes.

“A few months later he just showed up out of the blue, said he had no memory of how he got out. He was…pretty much himself. Like, old Cas, from before the whole Leviathan thing.”

“I wouldn’t think Purgatory was some place you could just saunter out of, even if you’re an angel,” she said.

“No,” Dean said, “it’s definitely not. It took major mojo to break him out, but he didn’t even want to…I don’t know. Look, it was weird, but we… _I_ …was just happy to have him back. Real him, not crazy, bee-watching him, or power-mad, deal-making him. Old Cas.” He shrugged and looked away. “I guess I got lazy.”

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” Sam said.

“Yeah, Dean. You let your best pal lose his mind— _again_ —but surely it’s not your fault. Just coincidence you were on watch both times it happened,” Meg said, her voice like a scorpion’s sting.

“What the fuck do you know about it?” he snarled.

“More than you think.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes sizzled across the table, and the tattoo on her ankle burned as her true form threatened to break loose from its vessel. That’s how furious she was.

“Cas counted on you, Dean. He’s an angel. Having him down here was like dropping a lamb into a pen of wolves. He had no idea what he was doing, and you were his only guide. I know it can be misleading, because he’s literally as old as dirt, but you have to remember he’s about as clueless as dirt, too.”

She shook her head. “He needed you. He was lost in the woods and you just let him wander.”

Her words were like bullets, each one carefully aimed to hurt, maim and tear. She had perfect aim. He stared at her, face transformed, and she glared back. “He didn’t come to me,” he said. “He went to  _Crowley_  instead.”

“Wrong, Deano. Crowley came to him. He was vulnerable and alone and fighting a war. He just wanted to protect you, and Crowley saw his chance and took it.  _Because you weren’t there!_ ”

“Whoa, hey,” Sam said. “Meg, calm down.”

She blinked. She hadn’t realized she was shouting until his quiet voice cut through hers. She was on her feet, her hands pressed against the table, and when she peeled them away, she had left scorched imprints on its surface.

“Fuck,” she said, softly. She stared down at her hands like she didn’t recognize them. “Fuck,” she said again. “I’m sorry. I…I guess I owe you a table.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said. He came around and gently pushed her back into her seat. “Adds character, I think. Dean, why don’t you grab us all a beer?”

His eyes jumped from Meg to Sam and back again. “Yeah, sure. A beer.” He fetched three bottles from the small fridge behind him and handed them out. Meg took hers with a distracted nod and held it without drinking for a long time.

Sam perched on the table and propped his feet in the chair next to hers. “I think it’s time you told us what happened to your old vessel, Meg. Truth time. Truth or I’m not sure we can help you.”

She set her untouched beer on the table with exaggerated care. “I should probably start at the beginning,” she said, her voice husky and weary.

“Last year, at SucroCorp?” Dean said.

“Ha. I wish.” Her mouth twisted. “It goes back a lot further than that, and it’s about that idiot tree topper.” She laughed, a rusty chuckle, and sat back in her chair.

“The first time we met, he threw me in holy fire. The second time we met, he kissed the hell outta me. The third time we met, he saved my life. That’s how you get a girl’s attention, boys. Trust me.”


	7. Voices in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam agree to help Meg with her problem, Meg gets desperate, and Cas wakes up a little.

  
**And the way that you answered**  
 **When you knew I was gone.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

“You’re kidding,” Dean said, throwing himself back in his chair. “You and Cas. Together. Like,  _together_  together? Like… _sex_?!”

She rolled her eyes. “Well we weren’t baking cookies, pretty boy,” she said with a smirk.

“How long did this go on?” Sam said.

“A few months. From a week or so after that whole thing with Crowley in the warehouse until just before they opened the door to Purgatory.”

“A  _few_  months?” Dean said. “That’s like close to a  _year_.”

Meg shrugged a shoulder and sipped her beer.

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about this.”

“Seems like he didn’t tell you a lot of things, that year,” she said.

“Yeah, but…this? I was trying to get him laid for ages. Hell, I woulda been proud of him!” He grimaced. “Can’t say I necessarily agree with his  _taste_ , but, hey. Sam had Ruby, I had that Amazon chick, Cas had you. We all make mistakes.”

Sam winced and made a cutting gesture as the “mistake” in question went still. A moment later she slammed her bottle down on the table and sprang to her feet.

“You listen to me, you arrogant son of a bitch. You don’t have a fucking clue. Not a clue. Castiel saw something in me. I’m not saying it’s there. Hell, I don’t think it is. But that featherbrained idiot insisted it was, and what’s more, he  _treated_  me like it was.”

She shoved the heavy oak table aside as though it weighed nothing and seized Dean by his collar. When Sam surged forward, she threw up her hand to stop him. “I’m not going to hurt him. I just want to make sure he’s paying attention.”

She leaned down and braced herself on the armrests of Dean’s chair. Her nose was nearly touching his, and he could smell the sharp, spicy scent of her perfume and pick out the gold flecks in her green eyes. “My entire existence I’ve been treated like a monster. That was fine with me, because I  _am_  a monster. How else would you treat me?

“But Castiel wasn’t like that. He treated me differently, and because of him I saw a different way to be. I saw another path, other choices.  _Choices_ , period. I know now that I don’t always have to do the terrible thing. I can be something other than what I was. I have options. I  _like_  having options.

“Cas gave me that, and no one’s taking it away from me. Not you. Not Crowley. Not anyone. So next time you want to casually write me off as Castiel’s little  _mistake_ , on par with your one night stand or Sam’s fling with an insane  _cunt_ —sorry, Sam, but she was—you remember who he trusted when  _his_  wall fell down. He didn’t even remember me, Dean, but  _I’m_  the one. Not you. Not Sam.  _Me_.”

“Are you done?” he said after a short, hard silence.

“Yeah,” she said and shoved away from him. “I’m done.”

“Good.” He got to his feet in a casual, unhurried manner. Eyed her up and down. Then, in a movement so fluid and practiced it left her shaking, he had her in a headlock, the knife pressed against her throat. “You ever get in my face like that again, I will end you. You hear me?”

“Dean!”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said to Sam. “I just want to make sure she’s paying attention.”

She let out a low, rippling laugh. “I can tell I’m out of practice. You never would’ve gotten the jump on me like that if I hadn’t spent the last century and change chained to a wall.”

He let her go and she stumbled a little in her haste to get away. “Yeah, well, you should be more careful.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda, sugar. It’s a little too late now.” She was talking about so much more than one little headlock, and they all knew it, but no one was willing to say it aloud.

He tucked the knife away and frowned down at his boots. Cut his eyes at Sam and then back to her. “You really think Ruby was an insane cunt? Weren’t you on the same side?”

“Hey, come on, don’t we have more important—”

“Don’t get me started on that crazy bitch,” Meg said, cutting off Sam’s halfhearted protest. “You know she was a witch when she was alive?” She shuddered. “I hate witches.”

“Me too. The weird shit they get up to. What is up with that?”

“Right? A demon wants you dead, we kill you. Simple. A witch wants you dead, shit gets all freaky with bones and fluids and who the hell knows what.”

“And dead is what you get if you’re lucky! You might just end up spitting out cherry pits for all eternity.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ witches, man.”

“Fuckin’ witches,” she said with a grim nod.

“Oh God. I think I liked it better when you two were trying to kill each other.”

“Cheer up, Sammy,” Dean said and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Looks like you get to go full-on nerd mode with this blue-lipped warlock thing. Go forth and find us brain worms!”

The idea  _did_  cheer him up, and he grinned before he could stop himself. “Er,” he said as Meg and Dean shared an amused glance. He rolled his eyes and let out a snort. “Right. Brain worms and blue-lipped warlocks. What a pain in the ass.”

Meg opened her mouth to say something (no doubt withering, or at least sarcastic), but instead her expression twisted and she pressed a hand against her forehead. Her body went rigid as a spasm of pain passed through her, and Dean steadied her as she wavered. “I’m fine,” she said, though she didn’t sound it.

“Sure,” he said. “You look  _awesome_.”

“A flash?” Sam said.

“No, not really. Just a spike in the headache. I think it would be better if you hurried, though. With the books.” She raised her head to offer them a barbed smile, and they stared at her.

“What?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re bleeding,” Dean said. He reached out a hand—it trembled, they noticed, and that maybe scared them all more than anything—and brushed her full upper lip. His fingers came away red.

“It’s just…it’s just a nosebleed,” she said. “No big deal.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Right. You’re a demon. Your vessel is supposed to spring random leaks. Happens all the time.”

“I thought he was the sarcastic one,” she said with a glare in Dean’s direction.

“We like to mix things up,” Dean said. He shifted his weight and frowned at her. “Go lie down. Try to get some rest. We’ll hit the books and see what we can find.”

“Why are you two being so nice to me?”

They exchanged wary glances. “Because we hate Crowley and we care about Cas,” Dean said. “Seems like the three of us have that in common, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess we do.” Her brows drew together over troubled green eyes. She swiped at the blood on her lip and turned away. “Thanks,” she said, her back to them. “In case I forget to say it later. I know you’ll do everything you can. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “You’re welcome.”

She disappeared into her borrowed room and closed the door with a quiet click. Sam and Dean shared another worried look.

“She’s dying, Dean,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“I don’t know if we can stop it. It might be too late.”

“I know that, too. Did you hear what she said? About Cas?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“We have to try. For Cas.”

“She said he doesn’t remember her. Not like that.”

He hitched a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Part of him does, or he wouldn’t have trusted her so much at the hospital. Hit those books, Sammy. Blue-lipped warlocks and brain worms.”

“Yeah. Okay. You take the computer. I’ll start on the archives.” They lingered another moment, eyes trained on the door that had just closed between them and the ailing demon, before they split, each intent on his assigned task and preoccupied by his own troubled thoughts.

* * *

Meg stretched out on the cot in her small room and stared up at the ceiling. She could hear the boys’ muffled voices through the closed door, and she found it strangely comforting. She wondered if they were talking about her. Probably. They probably thought she was dying.

She turned over to face the wall.

They were probably right. She wondered if the worm’s poison would cause her to burn through another vessel. This one felt mostly okay. Honestly she was more worried for her  _own_  brain, not her meatsuit’s.

She flopped onto her back again.

She missed Desdemona. The haughty little cat had never warmed up to her—and, honestly, the feeling had been mutual—but there was something comforting about being scorned by a cat. Her amber eyes seemed to have all the secrets of the universe trapped in their depths, and she’d never failed to wring a smile from Cas. Stupid cat.

“I’m tired, Clarence,” she whispered into the dark. “So fucking tired. How pissed would you be if I broke my promise? On a scale of one to ten?”

_Eleven. Not even an option. You’re a Queen amongst your kind, Meg. Like Desdemona._

“Stupid cat,” she murmured. “I should’ve found a really big dog and named it Iago.”

_That isn’t funny._

“Clearly I’ve lost it. The worm has done its work. No more flashes. Just me, lying in the dark, hallucinating. Hearing voices.”

_You should have called me sooner. I would have come._

“I didn’t call you at all, Clarence. I never called you.”

_I know. I wish you had. Just once, I wish you had._

She let out a laugh that was almost a sob. “What if you hadn’t answered? I don’t think I could’ve born it if you hadn’t answered.”

“For you?” he said, and she could swear his voice sounded real, not in her head at all. “If you called me, Meg, I would turn the world upside down to get to you. I would have plumbed the depths of Hell for you. If you’d only called, I would have turned back at the gates of Purgatory.”

She reached out in the dark, and her hand hit something solid, something warm and corporeal. “Castiel!?” she said. Silence. She fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, and a moment later the room was flooded with light. 

The room was empty, and she was alone. She leaned back against the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, furious with herself for letting the worm trick her. Her head pounded, and as she tried to breathe through the pain, a familiar scent teased her exhausted senses.

It was a scent that she would know anywhere. A scent she would recognize forever. It had haunted her since the day he’d tricked her. Held her close and then thrown her in holy fire. It had clung to her old vessel from that day on, but this vessel had never been close to him. There was no way  _she_  could.…

He had been here. It hadn’t been a trick. Unless…maybe she was hallucinating his scent, too? She leaned forward and braced her head in her hands. Those damn Winchesters better hurry the hell up, because she wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Real, not real. Here, not here.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and sent a prayer—her first ever—into the night.

“Castiel, you featherbrain, please. Help me. Please, Cas, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together. If you can hear me, put down the harp and get your ass over here. Please.”

* * *

Castiel stared up at the ceiling in the darkened motel room and wondered what he was doing here. Oh, he knew the actual steps that had  _brought_  him here: the park had failed to provide any sort of respite, and even fewer answers. At some point in his existence, he’d formed the association of dark rooms and soft beds with relaxation…so he’d come to a motel.

But something was missing. The bed felt big and empty. He kept contorting his body into shapes as though to make room for something. He reached out to find the space next to him cold, and it puzzled him. The sheets smelled all wrong.

He took a handful of cotton and sniffed. No. It should smell sharp and spicy, and beneath it all a faint hint of…sulfur? Demon? Why should his sheets bear the scent of demon? He tossed the fabric away, more nonplussed than ever.

He closed his eyes and tried to find peace within himself. Angels don’t sleep, of course, but at times they have been known to meditate, and it was his deep hope that he could do so now. He whispered certain words in Enochian, and eventually he relaxed enough to enter a light trance.

_Castiel, you featherbrain, please…_

His eyes flew open and he sat up like he’d been spring loaded. Meg…? Her voice was faint and muffled, and he couldn’t get an exact fix on her location, but a gold-and-onyx thread stretched across the miles between them, and he knew he had only to follow it. She was calling him.

An instant later he found himself in a familiar office decorated in shades of white and gray. A composed redhead sat behind a wide white desk and smiled at him across its lacquered expanse. Her hands were folded and not a hair was out of place on her perfectly coifed head. The only sign of her anger was a tiny muscle that jumped at the corner of her eye.

“Naomi,” Castiel said, voice weary. He had no time for her at the moment. “I have no time for you at the moment.”

“Oh, yes, I know. You’re extremely busy. Sulking, is it?”

“I prefer the term  _brooding_.”

“Semantics, Castiel. Let’s not split hairs.” She cleared her throat and straightened something on her immaculate desk. “That isn’t why I brought you here, however. We need to discuss the demon.”

He cocked his head and his brow furrowed. “Meg?”

“No, Castiel, Bozo the Clown.  _Yes_ , Meg, since that’s what she’s calling herself these days. I’ve tried to be generous on this point, but my patience grows thin.”

He blinked at her. “I don’t understand. Why do you care?”

“It isn’t seemly, Castiel. She is a  _demon_ ,” she said with an impatient huff of breath.

“She was there when I needed her,” he said. “When I was…unwell. I’m aware of what she is, but she is also, incongruously, my friend.”

Naomi stared at him. Rolled her eyes and waved her hand. The dam of memory in his mind broke, and he stood uncomprehending as nearly a year of his life came rushing back all at once.

“You did this? You kept this from me?”

“No, Castiel. You kept it from yourself. I merely…reinforced the barrier.”

His face contorted in a furious scowl, but she was unfazed. “I’ll raise it again before you leave. As I said, the demon, and your attachment to her, is a problem. If you insist on continuing this unnatural obsession, I will have to take stronger measures against her.”

“Speak plainly.”

Her eyes, hard and cold as sapphires, met his with a level stare. “We will hunt her down, Castiel, and we will kill her.”

His Grace flared like a deadly beacon, and he surged toward her. He slammed his palms down on the desk and it shattered like kindling. She shoved back in her chair, but he had his hands on her before she could react. “Try, Naomi,” he said. “ _Try_.”

“You are my puppet, Castiel,” she said, her voice strained as his hands tightened around her throat. “You dance on  _my_  string. I could send  _you_  to kill her and you would do it.”

He let her go, and she tumbled to the floor in a graceless heap. “No,” he said, voice cold and flat and deadly. “Not her. I would die first.”

She let out a rusty laugh. “I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that, Castiel. I truly do.”

He took a rage-fueled step, but then checked himself. He was trying to atone, and she wasn’t worth it. “I’m done here,” he said.

He was back in the motel room, and as she’d promised, Naomi had replaced the memory wall in his mind. He didn’t know she’d done it, of course, because he had no idea it was there…or even that Naomi existed. He felt a vague sense of  _wrongness_  and a lingering fury. Grace still sparked from his fingertips and glowed from his eyes.

Odd, but no stranger than anything else that had happened to him in the last few years.

He rose from the bed. Straightened his coat. When he opened the motel room door, he stopped short. A small black cat sat on the faded welcome mat. She’d been washing her paw, but when she saw him she stopped. Arranged herself like a perfect little goddess and stared up at him with wide amber eyes.

“Mrow,” she said, or a close approximation of it.

“Hello,” he said. “Do I know you?”

She gave a slow blink and a twitch of her tail like that was possibly the most absurd thing she’d ever heard.

_I should’ve found a really big dog and named it Iago._

“Desdemona?”

She let out a purr of approval and twined herself through his legs. He picked her up and she snuggled into his arms with a contented mew and several head-butts.

“Meg will not be as happy to see you as I am, I’m afraid.”

She opened one amber eye and fixed him with a stern cat glare.

“You’re right. She will be far less displeased than she pretends. She always is.” He considered for a moment. “It is, I think, part of her charm.”

The matter settled to her satisfaction, the cat curled up into his coat. He ran a finger along the line of her skull, between her ears and down her nose, and then they both disappeared with a whisper of wings.


	8. A Wing and a Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas reaches the bunker and is able to provide Meg a temporary respite, but she demands a promise of him first.

  
**I can list each crippling fear like I'm reading from a will,**  
 **And I'll defy every one and love you still.**  
 **I will carry you with me up every hill.**  
 **And if you die before I die,**  
 **I'll carve your name out of the sky.**  
 **I'll fall asleep with your memory and dream of where you lie.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Graveyard Near the House

Dean opened the bunker’s heavy door to find a gray, drizzly Kansas afternoon, silent and chill, and by all appearances empty. He pulled a pair of black rimmed Buddy Holly style glasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. Squinted out into the gloomy day before taking a few cautious steps outside and securing the door behind him.

“Hello, Dean.”

He jumped about a mile and spun toward the sound of the voice. “Fuck me, Cas, what have I told you?”

“I wasn’t sneaking. I was waiting.” The angel peered at him. “Is there something wrong with your vision?”

“What? Oh.” He snatched the glasses off and shoved them back in his jacket. “No. I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here? We haven’t heard from you in months.”

“Ah.” His brow furrowed. “After what happened.…Well. I felt I had some soul-searching to do.”

Dean looked him up and down, brows drawn together and mouth tight. He looked…like Cas. Worried and calm and just a little worn around the edges. He seemed to be cradling something in his coat, and his expression was troubled and preoccupied. The angel of Thursday, post-Purgatory.

“What  _did_  happen, Cas? Why’d you kill Alfie? We went to a lot of trouble to bust that kid out just to have you skewer him. And what happened to you in there? You lost it big time, like full-on PTSD.”

His mouth opened. He realized he had no answer, and it closed again. “I have no explanation,” he said at last.

“Yeah,” Dean said with a resigned sigh, “I figured you’d say that.”

“I would explain if I could, Dean. If I knew. I honestly don’t. It’s all…very vague. A voice keeps telling me Samandriel was compromised, and I believe it, but…it doesn’t sound like  _my_  voice. How could that be?”

“Jesus,” Dean said and scrubbed at his face with both hands. “You haven’t run into any blue-lipped warlocks lately, have you?”

“Dean,” he said, “don’t be absurd. The blue-lipped warlocks are a myth. If they ever did exist, they would have died out millennia ago.”

He blinked. Twice. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” he said, mildly.

“Jesus,” he repeated. He shook his head and paced away. Did a lap around the car. “Cas, why are you here? How did you find us?”

“I didn’t. I was following a prayer.”

“Not mine. I’ve been callin’ you for weeks.”

He shifted. “As I said, I needed time. I didn’t want to return before I had answers. I don’t want to put you or Sam at risk. Not again. Dean, if something happened.…” He let the thought die, but the strained lines of his face filled in the blanks.

“Whose prayer, Cas?”

He looked up. Met Dean’s hard gaze. “Meg’s. The demon Meg. She’s near here, but I can’t get an exact fix. Understandable, as things tend to get lost near the center. It’s a dead space. But she called, and I have to answer.”

It was what he’d been expecting, but still it came as a mild shock. He absorbed it, swallowed, and spoke through a throat that was still tight with anger and disbelief: “Why?”

“I owe her.”

“I mean, why her? Why  _Meg_? Not only is she a demon, but she killed Jo and Ellen. She possessed Sam and tried to get Bobby to kill me. She’s the first demon we ever met, our first actual enemy. She’s Yellow Eyes’  _daughter_ , for fuck’s sake. Why, if it had to be a demon, did it have to be  _Meg_?”

He cleared his throat. Studied Dean through narrowed, puzzled eyes. Tried to make sense of his friend’s obvious fury. “I’m not entirely sure I understand the question, but I will attempt to answer it as well as I am able.”

“Great. I’m all ears.”

“The first time I met her was, regretfully, the day she killed Jo and Ellen. I was trapped in holy fire, and she taunted me. I saw her as nothing more than an abomination, a vile and evil thing created for little more than death and destruction.”

Dean lifted a hand— _and?_

Cas frowned. Here was where things got fuzzy. He remembered their first meeting with perfect clarity, but from then on it all became far less clear. He wasn’t sure why he trusted her so much, why she seemed so familiar to him, and he didn’t know exactly how to answer Dean’s questions.

Desdemona stirred against his chest, and he soothed her with a quiet word.

“It’s simple, Dean,” he said. “I was wrong. We both were. She is a demon, a creature born of evil, but she is so much more. Could she ever be  _good_ , in the way…the way the stories define it? No. But could she be decent? Could she be brave and true the way you and Sam are? Yes. She has that spark within her.”

Dean looked away. Back. “You really believe that?”

“I do.” He paused. “So do you.”

“That’s funny, Cas. What gives you the idea I would ever think a  _demon_  could be  _decent_?”

His eyes lightened, a hint of a smile that didn’t touch his mouth. “You let her drive your car.”

* * *

“Okay, look, just calm down a second.”

“Let me in, Dean. I have to see her. She called me.”

“I get that, Cas. I need you to understand what’s happening to her first.”

“Dean?” Sam said and scrambled to his feet. “What’s going on?”

Dean rolled his eyes and motioned for Cas to follow him down the steps to the main floor of the bunker. “Look who I found lurking around outside,” he said to Sam.

“Cas? What are you doing here?”

“Meg called me here. The wards around this place prevented me from tracking her all the way in, but Dean said she’s here. Is that true?”

Sam glanced at his brother, and he gave a subtle nod. “Yeah, Cas, it is. But Dean’s right. You need to know what’s going on before you just burst in. First of all, can you heal a demon?”

He frowned. “Small things, sometimes. My Grace is painful to them, of course, but if the wound only touches the vessel…yes. A demon itself? No. I would do more harm than good.”

Another worried look passed between the Winchesters.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“You should probably sit down,” Sam said.

“I do not feel fatigue.”

“It’s not really…yeah, okay, good point,” Dean said. “I think I need to sit down.” He pushed aside a pile of books and perched on the edge of the table. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, man, so we’ll just spit it out.” He shifted his weight, ran a hand over his mouth, and offered a small, tight smile.

Finally, “Meg’s been in Hell this whole time, Cas. The whole time we were in Purgatory, and the whole time we’ve been out. Crowley’s had her, and he did a real number on her. Destroyed her vessel, that sassy little number from Cheboygan. Her new one’s cute, though; you’ll like her. Has a real nice rrr...hair. Nice hair.”

He gave a slow blink. Looked hard at Dean. At Sam’s flushed and worried face. Back at Dean’s odd little not-a-smile. “It is…unfortunate about her vessel. I can’t imagine what Crowley must have done to render a demon’s vessel unusable.” His expression twisted. “Meg is strong. She got out. She’s here.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “She didn’t so much  _get out_  as Crowley let her go.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing?”

“Tell us what you know about the blue-lipped warlocks,” Dean said.

“I told you,” he said in a distracted voice. “They’re a myth. What do they have to do with anything?”

“Everything, buddy. Time to start remembering your bedtime stories.” Dean explained what Meg had told them about the warlocks and the brain worm, and with each word Cas’ face grew bleaker.

“I’ll tell you all I know, but I need to see her.”

“Cas, there isn’t time,” Sam said. “She’s dying.”

“I understand.” He closed his eyes. Pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead before he looked up at them with pleading in his midnight eyes. “I must see her now.”

As if summoned by his words, a small black cat jumped out of his coat and landed neatly on the floor at their feet. They stared at her while she smoothed the fur along her spine and behind her ears with a small pink tongue. Then she rubbed her head against Cas’ leg. Ignored Dean with studied disdain. Sniffed a moment at Sam’s shoes. Glided delicately across the tile floor to stop at Meg’s door.

“Cas,” Dean said, “did you just pull a cat outta your pocket?”

“That’s Desdemona,” he said as though cats appeared from his coat every day. “She was sleeping.”

She blinked back at them through brilliant amber eyes. Turned to the door and pushed against it with an elegant black paw.

“It’s closed,” Sam said. “She won’t—”

The door swished open on silent hinges, and the cat paused only to offer him one short, withering glance before she disappeared into the room.

“She’s not your average cat,” Cas said. He followed her, and behind him Dean glared at his brother.

“Don’t even look at me like that, Sammy,” he said. “We’re not keeping her. Sick demons, freaky cats, blotto angels. This is the Bat Cave, not a home for wayward orphans!”

_Flash  
_ A hot bath had seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but Meg thought now that maybe she’d miscalculated. The water seemed  _too_  hot. The steam was too thick. She shifted in the tub, but she couldn’t get comfortable. Her skin felt tight, and the oils she’d added weren’t soothing at all. The scent was cloying and awful, and she thought she might be sick. Demons didn’t get sick, so that was absurd.

She tried to pull herself out of the tub, but a wave of dizziness hit and she slipped back into the scalding water. It seemed even hotter than before, and she whimpered every time it touched her. No. No. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the memory. What was happening? What…?  
_Flash_

“Meg. I’m here.” He touched her forehead and his brows drew together in a deep scowl. She was burning up with fever, higher than most humans could sustain. Her vessel probably couldn’t take much more, and the demon within wouldn’t last long in this place without her vessel’s protection.

Castiel ran a hand down her face and the lines of pain smoothed a bit. Desdemona turned a circle and then curled up in a small black puddle against Meg’s stomach. Taking his cue from the cat, Cas shed his jackets and slipped into the space between the slight woman and the wall. The cot was small, but he held her tight against him and they fit.

_Flash  
_ She turned her head and saw him through the steam. He looked down at her with a bemused little smile.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Taking a bath, genius. What does it look like I’m doing? A little privacy might be nice. Don’t you ever knock?” She settled back in the water and closed her eyes. Maybe if she ignored him he’d go away.

His eyes roamed the length of her, what he could see peeking from beneath the clouded water, and his brows quirked. “It’s quite warm in here.”

“You’re the King of Obviousania. Baths are better hot, contrary to Roman belief.”

He hesitated. Frowned. “Why are you cross?”

“I’m not  _cross_. I was just enjoying the quiet. Besides, I’m a demon. I’m  _supposed_  to be cross. Remember?”

“I can be quiet.”

“Can you? Good. Prove it.” A moment later she let out a shriek of annoyance as her tub was filled with khaki-clad angel. Scented water splashed everywhere, and several candles guttered out in protest. “Clarence! What the  _fuck_? You just doused my bathroom!”

“I would rather be quiet from here,” he said.

“Castiel. For fuck’s sake.” She laughed a little, a frustrated half-chuckle. “You’re still dressed. You have your stupid trench coat on in my bathtub.”

“Oh.” His clothes disappeared and now her tub was filled with naked angel. Better. She was feeling less cross. “Here,” he said and settled in behind her. Pulled her against him and wrapped himself around her, arms and legs. “That’s better, yes? Now I can be quiet.”

She let her head fall back to rest against his shoulder. “Better,” she said quietly. “It was…too hot before. I couldn’t breathe. It’s better now.”

“I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s okay now. I’m here.”  
_Flash_

“I’m here,” he said. He sent tiny threads of his Grace into her vessel in an attempt to soothe the fever without hurting the demon within. “I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. He closed his eyes and the scent he’d been missing back at the hotel washed over him. So did the sense of peace, and after a time he felt her temperature begin to stabilize and her body relax.

“No dying, Meg. You made me a promise. No dying.”

_Flash  
_ She turned to face him. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub and more candles sputtered. She didn’t care. She pressed her hands to either side of his face and stared into his eyes, darkened nearly to black in the half-light of the few remaining candles. “You went away,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I had to protect you. If they knew—”

“Who? If who knew?”

“The other angels. If they knew about us. How I feel about you—”

“Hush, Clarence. None of that. Feelings,  _ugh_.”

His mouth quirked. “Don’t pretend to be so hard.”

“I’m not pretending. Demon, remember?”

“How could I forget? Your thorns sting me every time we touch.”

She blinked. She’d had no idea. “Your Grace—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” His eyes clouded. “They know anyway.”

“The angels?”

“Yes. I was foolish to think I could hide it. They know, and they’ve threatened to kill you. It’s more important than ever that I forget.”

She leaned away and her dark eyes roamed the steamy bathroom. “This isn’t real, is it?”

“Meg—”

“I don’t care,” she said fiercely. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him to her. Kissed him hard and hot, her teeth nipping at his lip even as his hands ran the length of her water-slicked body.

“Meg,” he murmured against her mouth, “Meg, we shouldn’t. You need to wake up. We need to stop the worm’s poison.”

“Will you remember when I wake up, or will you still be  _protecting_  me?”

His eyes were troubled, and they told her everything she needed to know. “Then not yet,” she said. She moved against him, the oils she’d added to the water making it slippery and spicy-smelling, and when next he spoke, it came out a surprised and breathless gasp.

She mouthed beads of moisture from his neck and collarbone, enjoying the unique taste of him, the heat and texture of his skin. He tangled his fingers in her damp hair and tugged her head back to kiss her again. She tried to make it sharp, but he moved his tongue against hers in long, languid strokes. He trailed his fingertips down the side of her neck. Over the curve of her shoulders. Strong hands stroked the smooth lines of her back.

His mouth drifted along her jaw, leaving a trail of heat as he went, and down to nuzzle her neck, running his tongue in soft circles against her sensitive skin and then blowing a gentle puff of breath across the wetness.

She shivered and let out a low growl. “Clarence, what—?”

“Shh,” he murmured. His stubble scratched as he spoke. “Let me, Meg. Please, just let me.”

She shivered again but said nothing. Her head fell back as he kissed down her shoulder and ran his fingers over her breast, teasing her nipple with feather-light strokes and tweaks that left her gasping. His other hand moved between her thighs, and she wiggled in a way that made him bite his lip over a moan.

The water was hot, but she was molten, and his thumb was as slick and sensitive as a tongue against her clit. She moved her hips in an easy rhythm, and she could feel him hot and hard against her thigh. His mouth came back to hers, and between slow, melting kisses he murmured her name again and again, a mantra that contained a thousand things in a single word. She said his name just once, and it was still warm on her lips, her body still trembling and shaking from an orgasm that hit hard and fast, when he grasped her hips and lifted her onto him.

They sat joined for a time, neither moving, the only sound their labored breaths, and the water went still around them. The candles flickered. His eyes were a starless midnight sky, hers the deep brown-black of fine coffee without cream. He started to speak, but she cut him off with a hungry kiss. Whatever he had to say, she didn’t want to hear it.

She already knew anyway.

He moved beneath her and she flicked her tongue over his mouth. He buried his hands in her hair and her legs tightened around him. His Grace burned hot and her thorns pricked sharp, but neither noticed. She rocked against him. He gripped her tight and pulled her down hard. His kiss cut off her moan. Water splashed. He said something in Enochian through gritted teeth that made her laugh; she understood the spirt of it even if she didn’t understand the words.

He held her against him and thrust up once. Twice. A third time. Her head fell back. He leaned forward to bite her neck, a gentle pressure that in other times would have been anything but. It was her undoing, and the orgasm hit her like an endless wave. Another hard thrust and he was babbling a polyglot of English and Enochian and all the lights in her bathroom blew.

In the nature of dreams they somehow ended up on the bed, mostly dry and tangled in the sheets and each other. She fell against him with none of her usual quips or commentary, and he held her like she might shatter.

“I don’t want to wake up,” she whispered against his chest.

“I know,” he said.

“I don’t want you to forget.”

He closed his eyes. Opened them again and ran a hand down the elegant line of her arm. “I’m sorry, Meg.”

She turned her head to look at him. Grabbed his chin so that he couldn’t avoid her penetrating gaze. “You say you want to help me, right?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I came.”

“Okay, then. Let me help you, too.”

“Help me with what?”

“Your angel problem, moron,” she said with an impatient huff.

“Meg, I’m not sure—”

“Right, I know. You’re a big bad angel, and I’m just a lowly demon. It’s above my pay grade.” Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing without saying anything at all. “I’m a Queen among my kind, remember? Fuck angels. Fuck them up their stupid asses. I’ve killed angels before, and I can do it again. You need a bodyguard, Clarence, you’ve got one.”

He shifted. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in your fighting ability. You are ferocious, and Hester was no match for you.”

“You bitched at me for never calling you.”

Doubt flitted across his features.

“This is me bitching at you for never calling me. I can help you, Castiel. I could’ve helped you before, against Raphael. Against Crowley. You never asked, and look what happened.” She held out her hand. “Ask now. Stop forgetting me. Help me and let me help you.”

His expression was troubled, but after a long hesitation he slid his big hand into her small one. “It would destroy me if something happened to you.”

“Yeah,” she said with a droll quirk to her mouth. “Life’s a bitch and then your demon girlfriend gets skewered by an angel. Get over it, Clarence. Shit happens. Sit in the corner eating your hair or man up and get a hot piece of ass in the bargain. Which’ll it be?”

He blinked at her, befuddled. “I’m not sure what a donkey has to do with anything.”

She threw back her head and laughed, a sound of pure unfettered delight. “God, you’re cute.” She pushed him back into the mattress and leaned down to run her tongue up the side of his neck. “One more time, sexy wings, for the road. Not sure when I’ll feel like doing this again, all things considered.”

He flipped them both over and kissed her forehead. The tip of her nose. Her smiling mouth, long and lingering. “I think I could be persuaded.”


	9. What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, Dean, Meg, and Cas take a moment to regroup and discuss their options.

  
**And I wake up feeling new;  
** **And there's so much more that I never knew.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

Meg shifted in the bed and Desdemona let out a hiss of protest. “Erm,” she said and elbowed Cas in the gut. “Clarence, get your cat before I make her into earmuffs,” she muttered.

“Don’t make threats you have no intention of keeping,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure I—” She went still. Her eyes popped open. Small, spartan room in the Winchesters’ Bat Cave. Dinky, crowded cot. Stupid, grumpy cat. Sexy, rumpled angel. Two of these things did not go with two of these other things.

“Clarence,” she said, tone careful and even, “what are you doing here?”

He raised his head and she twisted around to look at him. “You called me,” he said as though that explained everything.

“Oh. Right.” She rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I vaguely remember that. I was kind of out of it by then.”

He touched her temple with light fingers. “How is your head?”

“It hurts like a son of a bitch. How’s your memory?”

He hesitated. Frowned. “Restored, I believe.”

“Don’t look so thrilled about it, featherbrain.”

“I’m sorry. I am glad, Meg. The memories are good ones.” His eyes shifted away and he cleared his throat. “Some of them…ah…rather colorful…”

She grinned.

He looked up again, brow furrowed. “But I can’t help my concern.”

“We’ll be fine, Clarence.” She turned the rest of her around so that they were face to face. Pressed her nose against the hollow of his throat and took a long breath. He ran a hand through her hair, and she felt the tensions of the past several days draining away.

“We have to stop the worm’s poison, or it will kill you. Crowley is probably unaware of the danger. He is an arrogant fool.”

“Hhhmm,” she said, unconcerned for the moment. Then, “He wants that kid Kevin and the tablet, and he wants to know about an angel named Samandriel. That’s why he sent me up here.”

He went still. “What did he tell you about Samandriel?”

“He said you killed him,” she said. “The Winchesters seemed kinda concerned about the whole thing, but you know how they are. A pair of maiden aunts, all fuss and cluck.” She paused. “I gotta admit I was a little surprised when I heard the news. I thought you’d given up your old angel-slaying ways.”

He was silent for so long that had he been human, she would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep. As it was she leaned back to get a look at his face, and what she saw there was achingly familiar. “Oh, Clarence, what have you done now?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe something. I don’t know!” He sat up so fast that she almost fell off the cot. He reached to catch her with an apologetic grimace, but she waved it away.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. He started to shake his head, but she grabbed his chin. “Nope. No dice. We’re in this together, and that means neither of is leaving this room until you tell me what happened.”

His eyes slid away from hers, and her mouth fell open. “You did  _not_  just think about sex.”

He shifted. “It was a very vivid dream.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She rolled her eyes and flicked her fingers toward him. “Fine. Take off your pants.”

“I’m not—that is—I’m perfectly capable of telling you what happened without…sex.” His gaze roamed the small room in a trapped sort of way before it finally came to rest on her. “Besides, I doubt you’re in any condition for such…physical exertion.”

She lifted a dark brow. “ _Physical exertion_? Better watch it, feathers.” She leaned toward him, and her grin was wicked. “You know I love it when you talk dirty,” she said in a throaty purr.

He stared at her, eyes wide in his startled face. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

She rested her arms on his shoulders and kissed his nose. “Yes, I absolutely am.”

His face creased, but his hands came up as if by rote to stroke her back as she settled onto his lap. “Meg, this is a serious matter—”

“Exactly. That’s why I did it. I’ve got worm poison in my head, and if we don’t get it out, I’ll die. For real, end-of-the-line die. You killed some angel and apparently there are dire circumstances surrounding it, and we all know whatever it is it’s not gonna be good. So, yeah, I teased you about the incongruity of being a horny angel. It’s funny, Cas. All things considered, it’s funny as hell. Forgive me.”

He took her face in his hands and studied her for a long time. She looked different. Not just the vessel, though of course that had changed, too. No, the creature inside was somehow altered. She looked…he wasn’t sure. Both tougher and more vulnerable at the same time, if such a thing were possible. It was the pain, he supposed. Pain can do any number of things to a person…and to a demon, too, if you apply it the right way.

“You are an impossible and infuriating creature,” he said in a voice like a caress.

“I know. So are you. It’s why we get along so well.” Her mouth quirked. “When we aren’t trying to kill each other, that is.”

“I haven’t attempted to kill you in quite some time,” he said, affronted.

“True.” She slid off his lap to perch on the edge of the bed. Searched under it for her boots. “Let’s hope I don’t get on the bad side of whoever’s pulling your strings, or that might change.” Desdemona batted at the trailing ends of her hair and she swatted her away. “Are there wards against dust bunnies around this place, too? No way Turner and Hooch are this neat.”

“You would be surprised,” Cas said. “When Dean takes pride in something, it shows. You’ve seen his car.”

She sat up, boots in hand, and watched him from the corner of her eye. “He hates me a lot. Like…an insurmountable amount, I think.”

“Dean is stubborn. He loathes and mistrusts demons, which is understandable. You, in particular…well. You have history. He isn’t as hard as he pretends, though. Rather like you.”

She made a skeptical sort of noise in the back of her throat.

“You’re worried about Dean, but not Sam?”

The slow ripple of her shoulder, up and down. “Sam’s different.”

“He has another sort of history with demons.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said with a little smirk. She still held her boots, and now she fiddled with the zipper on one of them. “I possessed him once, did you know?”

“Ah.” He sounded nonplussed. “Did you?”

“Mmhhmm. For a week. We got up to all  _sorts_  of mischief, he and I.”

She glanced back, saw his expression, and grinned. “Anyway, that’s not important. Point is, we understand each other a bit now. Possession is so… _intimate_.”

He glowered. “Meg.”

“Oh, all right. You’re just such an easy target, Clarence.” She dropped the boots and crawled back to him. “I thought I told you to take off your pants.”

His head tilted. “I thought you were…making a joke.”

“That was before you got all cute and jealous about me spending a week inside baby Winchester’s head. Take off your pants, hot wings. It’s time to see just how much  _physical exertion_  I’m up for.”

“Meg, I’m not sure—”

She slid her hands up his chest and grabbed his tie. Tugged him down with her as she laid back on the bed. “Not sure about what? Don’t worry, baby; anything you’ve forgotten should come back to you pretty quickly.” Her smile was wicked as she reached for his belt. “And it was a  _very_  vivid dream, wasn’t it?”

* * *

“Hey, there he is,” Dean said as Cas emerged from Meg’s room some time later. “How’s Meg?”

“She’s dressing. She’ll be out shortly.”

“Dressing?” Dean said. He shared an apprehensive glance with Sam. “Why was she…undressed?”

Cas’ brow furrowed and he looked away. “We were in bed. Talking. Then, things happened. We—”

“Whoa, yeah, okay.” He held his hands up. “That’s enough. Forget I asked.” He glanced at Sam again, and the younger Winchester grimaced. “Remind me to have this place fumigated as soon as they’re out of here,” Dean muttered.

“Regardless,” Cas continued after an uncomfortable pause, “she told me of her time in Hell. Of Crowley and his warlocks. I had no idea they truly existed. Have you found anything in your archives?”

“Not much,” Sam said. He tugged a heavy book from the stack at his elbow and pushed it in Cas’ direction. “There’s a blurb in here about blue-lipped warlocks, but it’s basically just hearsay. This one over here mentions them in passing, but it’s like you said—a legend. I can’t find any hard truth about them. No eyewitness accounts. Nothing concrete.”

“My question is how did  _Crowley_  find them? It must take some serious mojo to summon one of these guys. Where did he get the juice? How did he figure it all out?” Dean said.

“Oh, boys,” Meg drawled from her doorway, “I would never underestimate Crowley if I were you. Yeah, he’s a smarmy Eurotrash dick, but he didn’t become King of Hell by sitting on his hands. He’s ambitious and creative, and those are two traits very few demons have.”

“She’s right,” Cas said. “Crowley understands he isn’t going to get Kevin and the tablet by brute force, and he realized after a time that traditional torture methods weren’t working on Meg. He adapted to both situations.”

A crease formed between Sam’s brows. “Demons don’t adapt. They hit a brick wall, they keep running at it until they bash through.”

“Usually,” Meg said as she sauntered into the room. “Crowley’s different. Haven’t you boys figured that out by now? Hasn’t he screwed you over enough times to clue you in? Hell isn’t the same boiling-lava-whips-and-chains wonderland it used to be, kiddos. He’s  _modernized_.”

“Without me, he had no chance of gaining access to Purgatory. He knew that, and he played me brilliantly. What other demon would think of making a deal with an angel?” Cas said.

“Or maneuvering you boys so perfectly to get the Horsemen’s rings so that you could drop Lucifer and Michael right into that cage…and who would be left standing to pick up the pieces down below?”

“Or letting us take out Dick Roman, knowing whoever did it would get sucked into Purgatory with him,” Dean said.

“Leaving Kevin up here virtually unguarded,” said Sam.

Meg tapped the end of her nose. “Now you’re starting to get it. He’s not Azazel or Alastair, that ancient evil that turns your blood cold and your hair white, and somehow that makes you feel…safer. More complacent. Don’t be fooled, Winchesters. Crowley will cozy up to you with his bonhomie and his sweet, sweet deals, and all the while he’s sharpening the knife to stick in your back.”

Dean waved a hand. “You don’t gotta tell us about Crowley, sister. He’s a demon. We don’t trust demons. Period.”

Her mouth twisted. “Bully for you. My point is this: Crowley is a different kind of demon. The purebloods are almost gone. I’m one of the few left. Ruby and Crowley were once human, and let me tell you: they’re something else. Will I lie to you? Fuck yes. Will I cheat, steal, kill? Duh, of course, no shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I’m not really seeing the difference.”

“Open your eyes, pretty boy. Out of all the times we’ve tangled, have I ever tried to fuck you over? Honestly. Fuck you  _up_ , yeah, of course. That’s sort of my job…or it was. But have I ever pulled anything close to something like Ruby or Crowley’s every day capers?”

“You’re saying with you we’ll see the knife coming. No bullshit buddy-buddy act and then a shiv to the kidneys,” Sam said.

“Bingo. Ten points to the moose.”

Dean studied her through narrowed eyes. “You got a knife now, Meg?”

She held up her hands. “Unarmed here, boys. That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. If anything I’ve put the knife in  _your_  hands, and it’s up to you if you want to use it. You could let me die. It would hurt like a bitch, but whatever. Pain’s just pain.”

Cas started. “Meg—”

“I’m serious, Clarence,” she said. “The wards here are protecting me some, I’m pretty sure, but even if you get the poison out of me, who knows if Crowley’s still able to pull my strings. I might smoke out and tell him everything I learned while I was here. All about your Bat Cave and the angel kid and all of it.”

“You don’t now where Kevin is,” Sam said.

“Why do you think I haven’t asked?”

“Meg, Jesus,” Dean said. “We aren’t…look, we hate you.” He cast an uncomfortable glance at Cas and Sam. “Or at least I do. You’re a demon bitch with a hell of a bad attitude, but nobody deserves what you’re talkin’ about. We’ve got the knife. If you’re that serious, we could make it quick.”

“Dean.” A rough growl.

“Don’t start, Cas. It’s her life. Doesn’t she get to choose how to live it?”

“This conversation is ridiculous. No one is dying. We will find a cure even if we have to go to Hell and carve it out of Crowley himself,” Cas said. He turned to Meg, and his eyes simmered with barely controlled fury. “What did I tell you?” he said, voice dropping to a rasp. “What did I tell you when you made me remember?”

“I know, Clarence, but it might not be that simple.”

“It is that simple,” he said. “Whatever it is, we will figure it out. No dying, Meg. You made me a promise.”

“Fuck,” she muttered. “This is why I don’t make promises.”

“Looks like he’s got you on the ropes,” Sam said.

“Yeah. I hate that.” She glared at them, saving the worst of it for Cas. “Don’t gloat, featherbrain; it’s really unbecoming.”

“Okay, great,” Dean said. “Now that killing Meg is off the table, what’s our next great idea?”

“Crowley,” Sam said.

A small silence.

“What about him?” said Dean.

“Cas just said it. Crowley’s the one who summoned the warlocks in the first place. He started all of this, so he has to know the antidote.”

“He’s not going to tell you,” Meg said. “You don’t have any leverage.”

“We have quite a few things he wants,” Cas said.

“Yeah, none of which are  _for sale_ ,” Meg said. “And the second he knows you’re helping me—if he doesn’t already—fuck knows what he’ll do. Flip some kill switch in my head and this whole thing’ll be moot, promises and all, because I’ll be dead on the floor, stinking up your pretty little Bat Cave with my pretty little  _corpse_!”

“She tends to ramble when she gets upset,” Cas said to no one in particular.

“We’ve noticed,” Dean said.

“Okay, bad plan,” Sam said. “Any other ideas?” They all fidgeted and stared at each other. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

“I kind of have an idea,” Meg said. “It’s fucking stupid, and it involves leaving here. I’ll probably end up a vegetable before I get ten miles away, but I guess it’s worth a try.”

“I can take you wherever you need to go. We can travel quickly,” Cas said.

“Oh, angel airlines. How posh.”

“Your plan?” Dean said.

“Right. There’s this guy I know. He’s a real ear-to-the-ground type. If there’s big magic going down, he knows about it. You said it yourself: Crowley needed major mojo to summon the blue-lipped guys, yeah? He’ll know. He’ll have heard.”

Sam and Dean exchanged frowns. Cas looked concerned. “It’s thin, Meg,” Sam said.

“Paper,” said Dean.

“I told you it was stupid. Our other idea is give ourselves up for no good reason.” She shrugged. “Looks like I win by default.”

Dean wrestled with it, but finally he nodded. “Yeah, okay. I guess it’s better than sitting on our butts here waiting for you to lose it again. Where is this guy? We’ll go.”

“No way. He won’t talk to you.”

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’ve got my angel, Deanikins. I’ll be fine.”

“Meg—”

“Dean. You guys aren’t done with all these books, are you? There still might be something here. We’ll be gone a few hours, tops…unless my head explodes, in which case it might be longer. Either way, relax. I can handle this.”

Their eyes met in a wordless struggle. At last Dean relented and lifted his hands in a sign of concession. “Be careful,” he said.

“Your concern warms my heart, pretty boy. Don’t worry. I’m always careful.”

“Where are we going?” Cas said as he reached for her hand.

“Marguerite, Louisiana. And step on it, feathers.” Their palms met, fingers entwined, and they disappeared in a rustle of wings.

“You think that was a bad idea?” Sam said after a moment.

“Oh yeah, Sammy. I think that was a  _monumentally_  bad idea.” He shook his head and turned away to grab a beer. “You?” he said over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he said, expression thoughtful. “I think they’ll be okay as long as her head doesn’t explode.”


	10. Hoodoo Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg seeks out an old friend to help end Crowley's bad mojo, and Cas eats gumbo.

 

  
**Say you're grateful for the time alone;**  
 **Two years away and you don't miss home.**  
 **And everyone asks you if you still think of her,**  
 **So you smile politely and you demur.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "All for a Woman"

“This’s it,” Meg said. She tugged his hand and pulled him toward a seedy looking storefront, one of many seedy looking storefronts set along a seedy looking street in the seedy looking town of Marguerite, Louisiana.

“That’s a pawnshop,” Cas said. “The man we’re looking for is inside?”

“Yup. It’s his shop.”

He stopped her just short of the door. “Are you sure about this? Who is this man? This place looks…disreputable.”

“Honey, I’m a demon. Everywhere I go is disreputable.”

His scowl only deepened, and Meg sighed. Touched her fingers to his cheek for a brief moment. “His name’s Remy Abellard, and he’s an old Hoodoo man. We go way back. He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, and he owes me one. Maybe more than one. I think he’ll have what we need. Okay?”

He darted an unsure glance up and down the street, but at last he nodded. “A Hoodoo man.” He said it like one would say  _a meth addict_. “Very well.”

Her lips curved. “Poor Clarence. Let’s hope you don’t run into anyone you know, right? You’d never live it down.” She didn’t wait for him to work through that one, but instead left him there to puzzle it out. She pushed the pawn shop’s dirty glass door open and froze.

“Aren’t we going inside?” Cas said from behind her.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit, Remy?” she called into the shop’s musty, cluttered interior.

A giant of a man appeared from behind a clacking beaded curtain that separated the back room from the rest of the shop. He was big enough to make Sam Winchester look…not small, certainly, but perhaps  _normal sized_ , and his face was twisted into a bearish glare that made even Cas hesitate to challenge him. Meg crossed her arms over her chest and glared back. He looked like he could break her in half with one hand, and might at any moment.

“What you want, demon girl? I’m runnin’ a business here. Ain’t got time for your kind come sniffin’ ‘round me,” he said in a deep, rich voice. His accent, Cas thought, was a lie, a carefully cultured disguise to help him fit in and hide. Curious.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Get off it, asshole. I’m here to  _do_  business. You know I’m not like the rest of them.”

“You a demon, right?”

“Remy!”

“Demon girl come botherin’ me, bringin’ all sorts with her. Whatchu got, demon girl? That a angel?” Brilliant blue eyes narrowed in his sun-worn face, and a flicker of interest passed through them before he could hide it. “You done kidnapped you a angel and need ol’ Remy’s help, that it?”

“For fuck’s sake, Remy, do I really have to stand on the sidewalk and yell at you? No, I haven’t kidnapped him. Could we please go somewhere we can talk? I need your help. The angel is…” She waved her hands. “It’s complicated. Just quit being a dick and tell me where to meet you.”

He studied them a while longer, his gaze shrewd and knowing. Finally he jerked his massive head in a nod. “A’ight, demon girl. You stay out there. I tell Thursday’s angel where we meet, and he tell you. That sound good?”

“How did you know my name?” Cas said.

The big man’s laugh was like a roll of thunder. “Names is easy, angel. Ask your demon girl ‘bout it sometime. She tell you what Remy know about names.” He paused to scribble something on a pad of paper and ripped the sheet off. “You want your address or not, demon girl?”

“It’s okay, Cas. He’s cool. Can’t blame a man for not wanting demons in his store.” Except he’d never had the place washed in salt before, she thought. It was a new precaution, and Remy Abellard was very, very old. Something had him spooked, and that couldn’t be good.

Cas stepped inside and took the paper Remy held out to him. He laughed again and clapped Cas on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Six o’clock,” he told them. “And come hungry. Maya’s alligator gumbo would make even an angel weep.”

The accent was gone as if it had never existed, and Cas’ first impression was confirmed. “We don’t feel hunger,” Cas said.

“Oh well,” Remy said with a regretful sigh, “nobody’s perfect.”

* * *

“I don’t understand why you’re so sanguine about this, Meg. We don’t have time for social conventions. We don’t have time for  _small talk_.”

“Will you quit bitching? This is the way Remy wants it, Clarence, and right now he’s holding all the cards. I wasn’t expecting him to have washed the shop down in salt, but I guess I should have. Now he’s invited us to his house for gumbo, and we’re gonna go, eat, make polite conversation, and then ask for his help. It’s what people  _do_.”

“We aren’t people, Meg.” His brow creased in consternation. “And you’re dying. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

She looked away. “It’s not good.” She looked back and offered a self-deprecating grin. “Forget it, feathers. I can hold it together through one dinner. Can you?”

He made a noise, almost like a growl. “Perhaps.”

“You’re the most impatient celestial being I’ve ever met.” She turned on her heel and started away. Stopped at Remy’s gate and cast a glance over her shoulder. “Except Lucifer. He could be worse. He was like a pissed off cat when he didn’t get his way.”

She pushed through the front gate, and he followed her like a reluctant straggler. He had his angel blade ready, just in case, but she seemed relaxed and easy. It puzzled him. She was never relaxed. She never had her guard down. Who was this…Hoodoo man…to have earned her trust so readily, even when he barred her from his place of business?

Remy stood on his porch to greet them as they approached. His smile was welcoming, and the smells coming from the house were…intriguing. Even to someone who didn’t eat. Meg started toward the porch but stopped at the bottom step. Looked up with raised brows and a wary expression.

“Seriously, Remy? This’s gettin’ old, buddy.”

“The house is protected, li’l girl. I’m old, but I ain’t no fool. You’re still my guest here, you and your angel. Go ‘round back. We eat in the garden.” He chuckled. “This the South,  _cher_. We eat outside more than we eat in anyway.”

She let out a tired sigh, but at last she nodded and gestured for Cas to follow her. He glared at Remy, who merely laughed, and started after her.

“Y’all ignore that devil’s weed! Won’t bother you none ‘less you mean me harm,” he called after them.

“What is devil’s weed?” Cas said.

She gestured toward a spiky, thin-leafed plant growing along the path. “Protects against harm, just like he said.” Dried bits of it hung from a trellis separating the front garden from the back. “Old magic, simple but powerful. We wouldn’t be able to pass through if we were here for trouble.”

“Even us?” He sounded skeptical.

“It protects against intent. Me, yeah. I’ve seen it work before. You?” She shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know, Clarence. Good thing you’re just here for the gumbo, right?”

The back garden was a charming space obviously meant for outdoor meals just like this one. The profusion of blooming plants—hydrangeas, lilies, and roses, among dozens of others—opened onto little pockets of pungent herbs and twisted hedges. At the center was a small table under a trellis entwined with vines and twinkle lights. The table was set with three bowls, a pitcher of something cold, and a basket containing a crusty loaf of bread.

“Yep,” Meg said. “This all looks terribly suspicious. We should call Scooby and Scrappy.”

He pulled a face. “Pardon my concern, but this man is clearly not what he seems. What did he mean when he said he’s old? He doesn’t appear to be any older than forty.”

“Neither do we, hot wings. I’d say all three of us look damn good for our ages.”

“He’s  _human_ , Meg. How old is he?”

Again the shrug. She pulled out a chair and sat. Poured a glass from the pitcher and took a sip. Sweet tea, of course, with an unfamiliar herbal undercurrent. “I don’t know. He’s not celebrating his millennial any time soon, but he remembers the Louisiana Purchase with a certain amount of bitterness. That answer your question?”

He threw himself into a chair with a huff. “Your sangfroid is vexing.”

“Oh, baby, welcome to my world.” She offered him a cheeky grin over the rim of her glass, and he made that frustrated growly noise again. “You better stop,” she said, lowering her voice, “or there’s no way we’ll make it through dinner.” She winked, and his eyes went wide.

“Sorry to keep y’all waitin’,” Remy said just as Cas opened his mouth to reply. “Supper is served.” He placed a steaming pot of gumbo on the table and ladled out their portions. When he noticed Cas’ glass was empty, he frowned and filled it. The angel hesitated, staring awkwardly down into his bowl, but at Meg’s look, he picked up his spoon and took a bite.

“This is very satisfying,” he said after a moment.

“I tol’ you. Best gumbo in the state, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. You ever had alligator gumbo before?”

“Ah, no. I can’t recall that I have.” He took a few more bites.

“Huh. No alligator gumbo in Heaven, huh? All the more reason for me to keep my Cajun ass down here!” He guffawed and clapped Cas on the shoulder. He nearly choked on his food, and Meg hid a smile in her tea.

“I think the more hedonistic pleasures are frowned upon in Heaven, Remy,” Meg said. “At least for angels. It’s a different story for humans. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Humm,” he said, a philosophical sort of noise. “How ’bout you, demon girl? How’s Hell these days?”

She snorted. Stirred her rice and gumbo without eating. It really was delicious, but the pain in her head was sickening, and the rich spices were too much. “How do you think it is? Hot and shitty. How’s Louisiana?”

“Ha! About the same. Economy’s in the toilet. Nothin’s been the same since Katrina and that oil shit. We’ve never been what you’d call  _strong_ , money-wise, but lately it’s like the hits just keep on comin’.”

Her mouth quirked. “You could move. I hear California’s nice.”

“What the hell would an ol’ Cajun like me do in California? I got  _roots_  here, demon girl. Roots that go deep. I’d wither and die in a soulless place like California.” His bright blue eyes sharpened, and when he spoke again, the accent was wiped away. “You’re not eating.”

She dropped her spoon and pushed the bowl away. “I’m sorry, Remy. I don’t mean to insult your hospitality. It’s wonderful, really.”

Cas looked up from his bowl. He had a bit of bread in one hand and was using it to sop up the last remnants of sauce and rice. Now he popped it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Swallowed. “We did not come for gumbo,” he said at last.

“Uh huh,” Remy said with an amused glance, “I can tell.” He sighed and sat back in his chair. Cast Meg a long, penetrating stare. “You got the look of the dead about you, demon girl. Never thought I’d say that about one of your kind, but it’s there, sure as my beard.”

“You don’t have—”

“It’s an expression, Cas.”

“Ah. Right.” He settled back and made eyes at the pot of gumbo. Meg passed him her bowl and he dug in.

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you, or make me guess?” Remy said.

“You gonna tell me why suddenly devil weed’s not good enough protection anymore? Why you’ve got your shop and your house washed down with salt? Who’re you hiding from?”

“Who you think, demon girl? That sneaky sumbitch who calls himself King of Hell these days. What’s the name he uses? Crowley.  _Crowley_ , like that’s foolin’ anybody.”

Cas stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth, and he and Meg shared a glance. “Yeah,” she said, “that doesn’t really surprise me. It all comes back to fuckin’ Crowley, doesn’t it?”

Remy sighed and ran a huge hand down his face. “He came sniffin’ ‘round here ‘bout three months ago. Wanted me to do some conjurin’ for him. Nothin’ good. Normally I probably woulda taken the job.” He cast an eye at Cas. “Never hurts to have the King of Hell in your debt, my angelic friend. Even you have to understand that. I am a businessman, after all.” He waved it away. “Regardless, this job wasn’t anything I wanted to touch, so I told him to get lost.”

Meg sipped her tea and smiled a little. “I can imagine how he took that.”

“Not well. Oh, he stormed and stomped and broke a few things. I got rid of him. He got power, I ain’t sayin’ he don’t, but I haven’t gotten this long in the tooth by lettin’ some demon push me around.”

“What variety of conjuration did he want you to perform?” Cas said.

Remy looked away. Sniffed. Pulled a flask from his pocket and added a good portion of its contents to his glass. The smell of bourbon filled the warm evening. “You ever heard of them old tales, I’m talkin’ old even by your reckoning, of a cult of warlocks, real weird fellas. Powerful magic, mind magic.” He made a gesture toward his head. “Old stories said you could recognize ‘em because they all had blue lips.”

“He wanted you to summon the blue-lipped warlocks,” Meg said. She realized the glass in her hands was trembling, and she set it on the table and clasped her hands together. “Did he tell you why?”

“We didn’t get that far. When I realized what he wanted, I showed him the door.”

“You know of the warlocks, then,” Cas said.

He sniffed again. “Myth and legend. What about it?”

“You know enough to refuse the job without even learning the why of it.”

“You said they practice…mind magic. Like what? Brainwashing? Mind control? What did you mean?” Meg said.

“What makes you think I want to answer questions about them creepy sumbitches any more than I wanted to help summon ‘em?”

She sat back in her chair, eyes hard and mouth tight. “How’s Antoinette, Remy?”

He turned his head and spat. “Fuck you, demon girl.”

“Fuck me? Fuck  _me_? Fuck you, Remy! If it weren’t for me she’d be dead now. I know how you hate debts. Answer our questions and we’re square.”

“Huh. You were in the right place at the right time,  _cher_. That the only reason you helped her. It was convenient for you. Don’t try to play high and mighty with me. I know what you are, even if you do show up on my doorstep with some angel followin’ you like a lovestruck puppy dog.”

“Enough!” Cas said. He slammed his hand down onto the table hard enough to make the dishes jump. “She is undeserving of your contempt, Remy Abellard. Your daughter lives because Meg made a choice she did not have to make. You should thank her and be grateful. If you do not have the information we need, we’ll go. We don’t have time to waste.”

“See? Now you’ve upset him,” Meg said. “It’s never a good idea to…” She trailed off and shook her head. “What…?” The world around her began to swim. The twinkle lights above danced like fireflies. She reached for Cas as she fell, but she was so slow, like a bug trapped in sap. The pain hit her like a wall, and all went black.

_Flash  
_ He simply sat and stared. His eyes never focused. He rarely blinked. His hands were loose at his sides, or clenched into fists, or balled so tightly around the sheet that the thin fabric tore in his grip.

Sometimes his lips moved, mouthing words she couldn’t make out. Occasionally tears flowed, usually just a trickle, but other times a flood, entire sobs rendered in pantomime.

She wiped his face and eased his hold and ran her hand back through his hair. Whispered quiet words into his ear that seemed to soothe him. She had no idea if he could hear her. Often she felt as lost and helpless as he looked, and she hated that feeling. It infuriated her, an incandescent ball that burned in her gut and kept her going on the days when she wanted to throw her magazine across the room and walk out of the hospital and never look back.

She wouldn’t do that, though. She wouldn’t give up on him.

“You’ll be okay, Clarence,” she said as she tucked the sheet around him. “You take as long as you need. I’ll be here when you wake up.”  
 _Flash_

“What is this?” Remy roared, leaping to his feet and sending his chair flying.

“It’s why we’re here,” Cas said. He cradled her in his arms and knelt on the flagstone patio. Her body was a taut wire of agony, and her face was contorted with the pain. There was nothing he could do to help her. He couldn’t risk touching her with his Grace; she was too vulnerable, the demon too close to the surface.

“Explain, angel,” he said. He shoved the table aside and pulled a bit of chalk from his pocket. Scribbled a shape on the flagstones—an x inscribed inside a circle—and reached for Meg. Cas pulled her away.

“I’m trying to help,” Remy said, gently. “Give her to me. Tell me what’s happening and let me help her. For God’s sake, man. She’ll die.”

He frowned down at her, but reluctantly he laid her down inside the circle. She writhed and let out a soft moan before she went still. Her skin was ashen except for two spots of color high on her cheekbones. The fever was back, higher than before. “Her vessel—”

“Yes. We might lose it. Unfortunate, but she was mostly dead already. The demon within is who we must save now. I assume this has to do with our blue-lipped friends of legend.”

Cas nodded and didn’t take his eyes off Meg. He told Remy everything he knew about the warlocks and Crowley and the worm. The big Hoodoo man listened calmly, the only sign of his concern betrayed by a deepening of the lines around his blue eyes. When Cas finished, Remy turned that bright, penetrating gaze on the pain-wracked demon at their feet.

“This will not be easy, my friend,” he said after a time. “I will need your help. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Cas said without hesitation. “Whatever you need, I’ll help. Anything.”

“Very well. Come with me. Maya will watch over her. We must prepare.”

Cas paused, reluctant to leave her side. “Prepare for what?”

Remy let out a hard sigh. “This will require strong magic,  _mon ami_. Blood magic. It will not please you. Just know that everything I do is for her, and I know no other way.”

“Human blood?”

“Ha!” He pounded Cas on the back. “No, no, of course not. This is Hoodoo, not savagery. We’ll need a black kid. The goat variety, not a child. Come, Thursday’s angel. We’re wasting time she doesn’t have.”


	11. Friends. Of a Sort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Remy work that hoodoo, and Meg remembers a really good day.

**So I think of all the years spent alone;**  
 **It's like you're searching for something**  
 **To make you feel whole.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

_Flash  
_ She stared up at the ceiling and watched the headlights of passing cars as they flickered past. Why did they do this? Turn off the lights and lie in the dark like either of them slept. She did, sometimes, just for the hell of it, but she knew he never did. Who did they think they were fooling?

Desdemona butted against her hand, and she petted the cat with absent-minded strokes. She purred, but Meg only sighed and sat up. Tossed her legs over the side of the bed and rested her bare feet on the cold floor.

He stirred and ran a warm hand down her back. “Meg? Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said even as irritation brought her upright and away, toward the window. “Go back to meditating or whatever. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

There was a silence, and then the squeak of bedsprings and rustle of covers. Desdemona’s mew of annoyance as he shifted her. Meg didn’t look. Instead she twitched back the thin curtains and stared out into the street below. It had rained, and the asphalt looked slick and shiny beneath the streetlights.

A black river, she thought. Lethe or Styx? Oblivion or death?

She could sense him hovering just over her shoulder, not close enough to touch but still uncomfortably close considering her current mood. She wanted to ask him to leave. She would hate herself forever if she did, especially if he died tomorrow, but maybe that was why she wanted to do it. She could live with hate. She was made to hate. She wasn’t sure she could live with…all of this.

But then she turned around and saw his face and didn’t tell him to go, and the moment passed. He was naked, and the inconstant light from outside created a palette of ivory and ink across his skin. She stepped closer and ran a hand up his arm. He studied her through troubled midnight eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t do this, Castiel,” she said.

He brushed her hair back over one shoulder and pressed a soft kiss against the side of her neck. “I have no choice,” he said. “It’s too late to turn back now.”

“Scooby and Scrappy won’t stop. They’ll keep coming for you.”

“I know.” His brow furrowed and he looked away. “I broke down the wall in Sam’s mind. That should distract them for a time.”

“Hhhmm,” she said, a low noise of disapproval.

“What?” he said. His head pivoted so he could blink at her. “Would you have done something else in my position?”

“As a heartless demon bitch with no capacity to love? That’s exactly what I would’ve done.” She poked him in the chest. “You’re an angel, though. You’re supposed to be the superior species.”

“Angels are multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent. We have no capacity to love, either,” he said in a rough voice.

Her brows quirked and their eyes met. Locked. Heat simmered in the air between them. The bulb in her bedside lamp illuminated, a brief flash, and popped out.

“I’m glad we cleared that up, then,” she said, quietly.

“As am I,” he said.

She shivered and the moment was broken. He wove his fingers through her hair and pressed his other hand against the small of her back. Pulled her to him despite her token protests. “If you’re cold, I can warm you.”

“I’m sure you can, hot wings, but I’m not cold. I’m freaked out. What will you do about Dean? About Crowley? You really think he’s gonna hold up his end of your little deal?”

“I plan to repair Sam’s mind if only Dean stops fighting me. He’ll accept the offer; he cares for Sam more than anything else. As for Crowley…I’m unconcerned. He has overstepped his bounds a few too many times, and I’m done with his underhanded ways.”

Meg trembled against him, more worried than ever. Dean did love his brother, but the Winchesters also understood the importance of sacrifice. Hadn’t they shown that when Sam jumped into the cage wearing his custom-fitted Lucifer suit? And as for Crowley…

She pushed away, hands braced on his shoulders, and scowled up at him. “Don’t underestimate Crowley, Clarence.”

His grip on her tightened, and something flashed through his eyes. “He shouldn’t underestimate  _me_ , Meg.” Then he smiled and stroked his thumb over her cheek. Across her lips. “There’s still time before I must go. Come back to bed with me.” He leaned down to kiss her, his mouth hot and demanding, his hands gentle yet… _thorough_.

It worked, despite her fear, and she moved against him with a soft murmur of pleasure. But still she felt too discomfited to truly relax. “I like the way you think, feathers. Give me a minute, okay? I’m just gonna grab a drink.”

He let her go with a reluctant grumble, and she grinned despite everything. “I’ll be right back, big boy.” She put a little swing in her hips as she walked away, and she glanced back over her shoulder to catch him watching her with a hungry expression. She laughed, but the mirth died when she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face and back through her hair. She wouldn’t be with him tomorrow, and part of her was relieved, of course. Another, maybe bigger, part was…conflicted, and that was the piece that had her staring at herself in a mirror rather than having some hot ‘n’ sweaty last-night-on-earth fun with a certain sexy cloud hopper.

The Winchesters—even the crazy one—were still hunting him. Crowley would flip his shit when Cas backed out on their deal. Raphael and his allies were still out there.

And all of that was before he even got to the door itself.

Meg didn’t know if Castiel would succeed or fail in his fool’s venture, but she knew if he managed to open the door, he would get far more than he’d ever bargained for. More than he’d ever wanted, really. He was, despite all the mistakes and missteps and errors in judgment he’d made over the past year, a being of  _good_. The creatures in Purgatory most decidedly were not.

“Which’ll it be, Clarence?” she whispered to her ravaged reflection. “Oblivion or death?”

Because it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be no damn Hallelujah chorus.  
_Flash_

Dean paced a circuitous route among the tables, weaving around them like a figure eight. He paused to straighten the swords and moved on. Opened the fridge and closed it again. Replaced the big band record that had just finished with  _Master of Puppets_  and cranked the volume. Returned to the fridge to study its contents but decided against another beer and paced some more.

“Dude!” Sam finally said. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor. Would you find somewhere to light?”

“I can’t, man,” he said. “It’s after six. They shoulda been back hours ago. They haven’t called. Something went wrong.”

“You don’t know that.” Sam let out a sigh and stepped over to turn the music down. “Meg’s guy might have a ton of information for them, or even the actual cure. Maybe that’s why they’re delayed.”

“Yeah, or maybe Meg’s brains are scattered over half of Louisiana, Cas went nuts, and we just haven’t heard about it because we’ve been locked up in here all day.” He ran a hand down his face and did another half lap. “I’m tellin’ you, Sammy, I got a real bad feeling about this. Maybe Crowley found them.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead stacked up the books they had already been through. He needed something to do with his hands, something mindless and easy. He wasn’t as agitated as Dean, but he was worried. Dean was right: they should’ve been back by now, or at least called. Something must have happened, and it probably wasn’t good. He wasn’t going to say any of that aloud, of course: he didn’t want to encourage Dean’s mood.

“It’s only about fourteen hours to that town she mentioned. Marguerite. If we left now—”

“Uh huh,” Dean said. “I knew it.”

“I’m not saying you’re right, but I know you’d feel better if we were doing something rather than just sitting here. I’m not sure how much more help any of this stuff is gonna be anyway.”

There was a pause. Sam cast his brother a questioning look.

“Days like this, I really miss Bobby,” Dean said, his eyes on the stacks of books. “I know you live for this stuff, and you’re good at it, but Bobby just had a way of…” He made a gesture as words failed him. “I don’t know. Cutting through a problem. Ninja style.”

Sam’s smile was wistful. “A research ninja. Yep. That was him.” He looked around the bunker and shook his head. “He would’ve loved this place.”

Another small silence, and then Dean shook himself like knocking away cobwebs. “Fourteen hours?”

Sam shrugged. “Give or take, yeah. Less, the way you drive.”

“Great,” he said. “You grab the books.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make sandwiches and brew coffee. It’s gonna be a long night.”

* * *

“Well, Castiel, I see you’ve made your decision.”

 

He blinked and looked around. The white-on-white office was back. The composed redhead behind her (new or repaired) desk. The disparaging tone and general air of bureaucracy.

“Naomi,” he said by way of greeting. “What do you want?”

“This nonsense has to stop, Castiel. Blood magic?” She sighed and shook her head like a disapproving aunt. “I’m sending a small contingent of angels to your location right now. Remy Abellard and that  _demon_  of yours will trouble us no further.”

His head tilted.

She made a gesture to forestall whatever he might say. “You’ll have no memory of this conversation, Castiel, so you won’t be able to warn anyone. Not only that, but when they arrive you will not stop them.”

“Of course, Naomi,” he said, mildly. “I am your puppet and I dance on your string.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I am curious, though. I thought you were going to have me kill…the demon. Is that not what you said? Did you change your mind?”

Her eyes flicked away. She raised a hand and smoothed her hair. He noticed, even if she didn’t, that her fingers trembled. She saw the direction of his gaze and snatched her hand back. “I have no need to explain myself to you, Castiel,” she said, her voice unnecessarily shrill.

“Very well. I shall eagerly await further orders.”

He offered her a sardonic salute, and she started to her feet, an angry retort on her lips. It died there, unborn, as he disappeared without being dismissed. That wasn’t possible. This was  _her_  place, not his. He didn’t have the luxury to come and go as he pleased. She scowled and fell back into her chair.

Castiel. The angel of Thursday. The rebel, the killer, the dealmaker. Was he even worth all this fuss and bother? Someone thought so.

Naomi rubbed her temples and stared at the desk with unseeing eyes. After a long moment she reached for the phone and hit a button. A buzzer sounded.

“I think we might have a problem with Castiel,” she said. “The demon is proving more of a sticking point than we expected. He is…resisting.”

Silence. Then, without any indication from the phone that anyone was even on the other end, the door to her office opened on whispered hinges. With a resigned sigh she stood, straightened her jacket, and stepped through it.

* * *

“You, angel. You check out on me? Wake up, son. We still got lots of work to do if we gonna save this demon girl,” Remy said. He patted Cas on the cheek (his hand covered Cas’ entire face) and handed him a jar. “Handful of that, when I say.”

 

“What is it?” Cas said as he peered at the jar’s mysterious contents.

Remy glanced up with half a grin. “Better if you don’t know. Salve for your conscience,  _non_?” He bent back to his work and muttered to himself for a time. He had no books, no scrolls or papers. He seemed to work entirely from memory, or else he improvised as he went along. 

Cas wasn’t sure which option he preferred.

“Where did you go?” the Hoodoo man said after a time.

“I’m sorry?”

“When you went…” He made a flitting gesture, like a bird flying away.

Cas blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, now.” He set down the blade in his hand and fixed Cas with a piercing blue stare. “Ain’t that a kick in the head? I don’t know a whole lot about angels, but I don’t think that’s exactly usual.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Remy’s shoulders rippled in a particularly Gallic shrug. “You were here, talkin’ to me, askin’ questions like a damn magpie. Next thing, you went all quiet. I looked, and you were just…starin’. Far away. I said your name, and nothin’. Then you were back, and you got no memory of bein’ gone. You don’t seem too surprised. Annoyed, maybe, but not surprised.”

Cas let out a breath and shifted his weight. “There was an incident a few months ago. I haven’t been able to explain it. It has…weighed on me.” 

He told Remy about Samandriel, from the moment he had the idea to rescue his brother through those dark, confusing seconds when he  _thought_  Samandriel had rushed at him and he’d had to kill him. He told him about the voice in his head, how it wasn’t quite his own. The lost time. How sure he’d been in the dream that someone would be hunting Meg if he remembered her.

He let out a long whistle when Cas fell into a troubled, brooding silence. “Sounds like you and demon girl is two sides of the same coin.”

“Yes. Our afflictions are similar. I don’t believe there are any worms involved in mine, though.”

“No, there wouldn’t be. Angels don’t really have physical form at all, do they?” He didn’t wait for Cas to answer. “I can’t really help you much. Angels are…beyond me.” He rubbed his chin and considered. “I can give you a charm. Well, one of two charms. Your choice.”

“What are the options?”

“Ah, well, there’s the rub, as the Bard said. One would allow you to remember what happens to you when you check out, but there still wouldn’t be anything you could do about these posthypnotic suggestions.”

Cas’ brow furrowed.

Another little shrug. “The other would allow you to remember and, perhaps, fight it. A bit. As I said, angels are hardly my usual clientele.”

“Why would I choose any but the second charm?” Cas said, voice rough.

“It hurts,  _mon ami_.” He gestured toward Meg. “Look at her. That is the cost of fighting. If she’d allowed the worm to gather its information in peace, she wouldn’t be in the mess she’s in now. If she’d simply followed Crowley’s orders once she got up here, her brain wouldn’t be slowly turnin’ into pickled okra.”

He set his jaw. “I’ll take the second one. I would rather fight.”

Remy rumbled out a laugh. “I thought you’d say that. Let’s finish with demon girl, then I help you, yeah?”

“How much longer?” he said, anxious for her, not for himself.

“It’s gotta set a bit, then the blood.” He tossed a small bag at Cas, and the angel nearly fumbled it as he juggled the jar. “Put this inside the circle with her. It’ll make sure whatever she’s rememberin’, at least it’s happy.”

“What is it?” Cas said with a suspicious frown.

“Just a few herbs. Smells real nice, don’t it?”

He sniffed and had to admit it did.

“Then quit lookin’ at me like that and put it in the circle. I ain’t out to hurt your woman, Castiel.”

Cas glowered, but he did as instructed. “She’s not my woman. We’re merely…friends. Of a sort.”

“ _Of a sort_.” He tossed a handful of something in the bowl and grinned through the steam. “Yep, guess that just about covers it.”

_Flash  
_ “I hate winter. It’s the cold, you know? And the damp. They just get to me.”

“You’re a demon.” He raised up on an elbow and looked down at her with a furrowed brow. “You don’t feel heat or cold.”

“No, I know. It’s hard to explain. I guess I just feel more alive when it’s hot.” She shrugged. “Reminds me of home.”

“Ah.” He fell back against the pillows and considered. “Get dressed,” he said. “Leave your coat.”

“What—?”

“Just get dressed.”

Arguing with him wasn’t worth the effort. She pulled on her jeans and boots. Tugged a shirt over her head. He held out his hand and she grasped his fingers. There was a flash and her bedroom was replaced by blinding sunlight and brilliant blue sky. Wildflowers nodded on thin stems. Grass rippled in a lazy breeze. The air was heavy with scent and the sounds of insects. Sweat broke out on her skin and she stretched her arms above her head with a ripple of laughter.

“Where are we?” she said.

“Southern Georgia. Spring comes much more quickly here.”

“Spring? Feels like July.”

He shrugged. Grinned a little. “Time is elastic.”

She gaped at him. “Are you kidding?”

“I rarely kid, Meg.”

“You’re a crazy person, Clarence.” She turned in a circle. Ran her hands through the high grass to feel its sharpness and release its bright green scent into the humid air. “Damn, feathers, you know what we need?”

“Desdemona? She would enjoy chasing the butterflies.”

“No, Jesus, not that idiot cat.” She made an impatient gesture. “Watermelon! My meatsuit apparently fuckin’ loves watermelon, and she makes it sound awesome. Think we could find some around here?” She didn’t mention how much  _he_  tasted like sweet summer melon, and that every time they kissed her craving for the real thing only increased. Same with fresh-baked cookies and fine whisky and bitter chocolate. It was exhausting.

He disappeared, and a moment later he was back. “I’m unsure how to open it,” he said, offering the melon to her.

A brow flicked upward in amusement. “Guy’s an omnipotent immortal being, can’t even figure out how to cut a watermelon.” She pulled a switchblade out of her pocket and flicked it open. “Put that down before you hurt yourself, featherbrain. I got this.”

While she worked he shed his trench coat and jacket. Loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Stretched out on the grass and stared up at the cloud-studded sky. The war was, for the moment, forgotten, and he lost himself in the sights and smells of a beautiful afternoon. This was why he fought, after all. For places like this. Days like this. Freedom like this.

She appeared above him with a triumphant grin. “For you, my fine feathered friend,” she said.

He sat up and accepted the juicy red wedge she offered. “How does one eat it?”

“With your mouth, genius.” She leaned over her smaller piece and sucked off a bite. Rolled it around in her mouth. Chewed and swallowed. “See?”

Juice dripped down her hand and she licked her fingers clean. He watched her, fascinated, and now her smile had an edge to it. “What’s the matter, Clarence?” she said, all innocence.

“Ah. Nothing.” He frowned at the fruit in his hand. He raised the wedge to his mouth and sank his teeth in. Juice gushed. It dripped from his chin. Ran down his neck. Covered the front of his shirt.

She smothered a giggle behind her hand and he glared at her. “You did that on purpose,” he said.

Her eyes went wide. “Now why would I do that?” She tossed the rind from her piece over her shoulder and grabbed his tie as she moved into his lap. “Look at you. You’re a mess.”

“I’m unsure that watermelon is worth the effort,” he said in a sulky voice.

She pouted at him. “Poor angel, all sticky. Let’s get this shirt off you before the bees decide you’re something yummy to eat.” She already had it mostly unbuttoned, and now she slipped it off his shoulders and pulled the tie over his head.

“Much better,” she said. She took a bite of his watermelon and offered him the wedge. He took a tentative nibble, and this time there were just a few minor drips.

“You’re still wearing your shirt,” he said around a mouthful of melon.

“So I am.” She tugged it off and smirked at him. “Better?”

“I think so.”

“Mhhmm, me too. New rule: from now on we only eat watermelon with our shirts off. It’ll save so much money on laundry bills.”

“I like that rule,” he said, his voice going husky as she caught the droplets of juice on his neck with her tongue.

“I thought you would,” she said against his skin. “I know I do.”

He pulled back. Stared at her with head tilted and eyes fathomless. Something about that look made her uneasy, and she shifted against him. “Er…?”

He held up his slice of melon and squeezed it in his fist. The juice ran between his fingers to rain over her chest, and she let out a sharp laugh of surprise. It turned into a gasp as he grasped her thighs and flipped her onto her back. For a moment the sun dazzled her eyes, but then he was above her, blocking it out and casting her in shade.

“Now  _I’m_  all sticky,” she said with a fretful frown.

He said nothing, merely smiled a little, and lowered his head to lick a blazing line from her belly button to her collar bone. She wriggled and made a tiny noise like a whimper. He swirled his tongue against the pulse at the hollow of her throat and then licked his way down to her breasts. He circled his tongue around her nipple, enjoying the soft sounds she made as he did it, before he sucked it into his mouth.

He pulled away after a moment and gave her a satisfied grin. “Sweet.”

“You take that back, Clarence,” she growled.

He kissed his way down her belly, marking her with lips and tongue and teeth. “I’m sorry, Meg, but it’s true. So, so sweet.”

She let out a hiss of protest that grew louder when he pulled away. “Whoa, halo face, where do you think you’re going?”

“I only have one free hand,” he said in an infuriatingly steady voice. “I was hoping you would help me with your pants.”

“You could put down the fruit.”

He glanced at the pulverized melon. Back at her. His mouth twitched. “I don’t think so.”

“Fine,” she said with an exasperated huff. She kicked off her boots and wriggled out of her jeans. When she fell back against the grass again she was naked, and the afternoon sun turned her skin to bright alabaster and honeyed shadow. He paused to run a hand down her body, reveling in the smooth softness, in the prick of thorns, and she arched into his touch with a purr.

He dipped his head to lap at her belly button. He squeezed the watermelon and dripped juice over her white thighs and the heated folds between them. She moaned and tangled her fingers in his hair; ran her nails up the back of his neck and around the curve of his skull just hard enough to sting without leaving a mark.

He threw the fruit aside and kissed the droplets from her thighs. Chased the pale pink rivulets with his mouth. Sucked the juice from her skin and basked in the sounds of pleasure she made.

“Clarence,  _please_ ,” she grated.

“Please what?” he said, blue eyes wide and innocent.

“You  _know_  what.”

“Hhhmm,” he murmured. He did know, of course, but she so rarely asked him for anything.…

He ran his tongue around her slick wet lips, delighting in the mingled sweetness of the juice and her unique, familiar smoky taste. She let out a soft moan and her head fell back. He peeked up at her as he probed, exploring every slippery fold and crease with his tongue. He gave her clit a teasing flick that made her shudder before he moved down to dip inside.

She said his name again, and he heard the plea in it. He smiled, and his hum of pleasure vibrated through her. He circled his tongue around her clit until she thought she’d go mad, and then he sucked it between his lips and thrust two fingers into her.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas!” she cried, her back arching and her thighs going tight around him.

He curled his fingers, stroked them in and out, while his mouth worked the sensitive nub. He sucked. Licked. Swirled. Her hips rocked beneath him and he knew she was close. Her fingers scrabbled at the earth, uprooting grass and sending the scent of crushed wildflowers to mingle with ripe summer melon and sex.

He lapped up and down, from her entrance to her clit and back again, pausing only to flick his tongue against her now and then. His fingers twisted inside her and he growled something unintelligible against her flesh. She cried out once, a ringing yelp that subsided into pleasure-soaked moans as the orgasm shook her in wave after wave.

He kept his mouth pressed to her through the aftershocks, and it was only once she had settled against the grass with a soft sigh that he raised his head to offer her a smug grin.

She smirked and swatted his shoulder. “So what’s the verdict, Clarence?” she said in a breathless drawl. “Watermelon worth the effort or not?”

He tilted his head to give the question all due consideration and crawled up to stretch out next to her. “I believe my initial judgement was too harsh.”

A dark eyebrow quirked above mischievous brown eyes. “Oh good,” she said. She pushed him back against the bed of wildflowers and rose over him, her smile a bewitching promise. “Because now it’s my turn.”


	12. Mojo Pin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy gets down to the serious mojo with Meg and loads Cas up on some mojo of his own. Meg continues to flash through old memories.

**You know me, how I can't let go.**  
 **And we're not gods; we're just hacks;**  
 **All that life amongst the cracks.**  
 **The scars, the siege that breaks,**  
 **The ugliest scene, the worst mistakes,**  
 **And everywhere I see her face.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Innocence"

_Flash  
_ “Meg, I have very little time for frivolity. I’m in the middle of—”

“A war. Yes, Clarence, I know. We  _all_  know. Don’t we, Desi?”

The cat opened one eye, stared, and then closed it again. Meg shooed her off the couch and dragged Cas down next her.

“That’s exactly why we’re here.” She grabbed the bowl of popcorn and hit  _play_  on the remote. “It’s time to fix some gaps in your education, Clarence.”

“What is this?”

“It’s called  _The Big Lebowski_. Next we’re watching  _Heathers_. If you don’t love one or both of them, you can spank me for wasting your time.” She offered him a wicked grin. “See? Win-win.”

He studied her through narrowed, thoughtful eyes. Finally, “Pass the popcorn,” he said and settled back against the cushions.

_Flash  
_ “Clarence, what in all the levels of Dante’s Hell have you done to my kitchen?”

It looked like a bomb had gone off. Flour was everywhere. Mixing bowls were stacked three high. Desdemona sat on the counter rolling an egg between her paws. Cas stood in the middle of it all wearing an apron ( _over_ his stupid trench coat…and where had he gotten an apron anyway?), also covered in flour, with a sheepish expression.

“I attempted to make cookies. There were…complications.”

She blinked. “Cookies.” A quick reach and she had the egg away from the cat. “Why…?” She closed her eyes and rubbed them. “Cookies. They have cookies at the store, featherbrain.”

“Yes. I thought you would enjoy homemade ones more.”

Dark brows arched toward her hairline. “You were making  _me_  cookies? Don’t you have better things to do? Nasty archangels to fight? Baby Winchester souls to find?”

He looked nonplussed. “You like cookies.”

Her mouth opened. Closed again. She stared around the wrecked kitchen and shook her head in disbelief. Finally her lips curved into a bemused little smile. “All right, Betty Crocker, first things first. Lock the cat in the bathroom and clean up this mess. I’ll hit the store to resupply.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Honestly? I don’t either. But it looks like we’re bakin’ some fuckin’ cookies.”  
 _Flash_

Remy held his flask out to Cas, but the angel shook his head. “Probably don’t do you much good anyway, I guess.”

“No. I must drink a much larger quantity to feel alcohol’s effects.” The goat bleated and Cas stroked its head. “Are you sure this will work?”

Remy took the lead rope and guided the animal across the flagstones. Its hooves made discordant clacking sounds, like a frightened woman’s shoes. “Truth or comforting lie?” he said at last.

“Surprise me.”

He took another a last swig off the flask before he screwed the lid back on and stowed it away. “She gon’ be fine, angel. This ain’t my first trip to the crossroads.”

Truth or comforting lie? A mix of both, surely. No, it wasn’t Remy Abellard’s first time, but neither would Meg come out of this unscathed—if she came out of this at all. Cas accepted it for what it was and nodded his thanks.

“You ready with that jar? The powder and the blood gotta hit at the same time, or we’ll have to start all over. These black kid goats ain’t so easy to come by, so let’s don’t waste this one.”

Maya, Remy’s apprentice, housekeeper, and (Cas suspected) lover, walked around the circle that enclosed Meg and lit long sticks of incense. She muttered prayers under her breath, and Cas could just make out the words over the goat’s cries.

“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.’” She hummed a note or two and began again. “‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among lilies.’”

Cas turned questioning eyes on Remy. The Hoodoo man shrugged. “We usually use Psalms, but she’s a demon.”

“So you chose the Bible’s greatest love song instead?”

“Ah well. Love is why we’re here, isn’t it?” He winked, but before a deeply befuddled Cas could reply, he raised the knife and nodded toward the jar.

Cas fumbled with the lid a moment, but he had it off by the time the goat let out its last, loudest scream. The iron scent of blood filled the air, and as it splashed onto the flagstones, Cas threw a handful of the powder to mingle with it. Remy’s voice was like thunder, and power hummed in the air with a physical presence. Cas felt his Grace stir in response.

Maya knelt next to Meg and anointed her forehead and pulse points with oil. She still murmured the Song, and incense smoke danced around the two women like snakes’ coils. Remy’s voice rolled on and on. The mingled odors of blood, incense, and herbs were dizzying, and Cas felt the ground tilt beneath his feet. He shook his head and tried to focus on Meg.

He could see her in two parts now, more clearly than ever. Her vessel was still, utterly lifeless, and he detected only the faintest spark within it. Her true form fought to escape, claws raking and teeth gnashing. Agony distorted her finely drawn features, and her eyes blazed with hellfire. Her head snapped around, and that burning onyx gaze locked with his.

He felt her suffering straight through to the core of him, the place where his soul would reside if he had such a thing, and he staggered from the ache of it. This wasn’t just what Crowley or the warlocks had done to her; this was…life as a demon. The anger and the hate and the hurt never ending.

Maya forced a ladleful of Remy’s strange brew down Meg’s vessel’s throat, and she retched. The demon convulsed and screamed in silent torment. Cas took a drunken step toward her.

“You’re killing her,” he said, his voice so low and rough as to be inaudible.

“It’s the only way,” Maya said without looking up. “Stay out of the circle, or she will certainly die.”

“You’re killing her!” he said again. He reached for them, and Maya turned her head and hissed a single, scathing word. Cas flew through the air several feet to hit the stones with a jarring thud. Apparently, he thought as the twinkle lights danced above him, Remy knew a bit more about angels than he’d let on.

_Flash  
_ “You don’t have to do this, Clarence. Don’t let them guilt you into it. You don’t owe them anything.”

“I believe that I do,” he said, his voice earnest and his expression troubled.

“You did some bad shit, it’s true. But, come on, everyone does bad shit. It’s just  _life_. Ask Sam about the tricks he pulled when he was soulless. Or how about all the people they’ve killed just because they happened to be possessed? My old meatsuit! Little blond thing, cute as a button, and dead as a doornail because of those dipshits.”

He held her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Meg, I understand your concern. This is very dangerous, and you are kind to worry. I’m the only one who can identify the real Dick Roman, the one concealing the Leviathan. I have to go.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m not being  _kind_ , I…!” She turned away and rubbed her forehead. Spun back around and lifted her chin to offer him a furious glare. “Fine. You go, I go.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m dead meat anyway, right? That’s what Crowley said. Might as well go down swinging. You go, cloud hopper, I go. That’s the deal.”

He smiled a little. “‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’ Very well. I suppose we have a deal.”

“Good. It wasn’t really a negotiation.”

_Flash  
_ “Hey,” Meg said to a group huddled around a newsstand, “what’s going on?”

A guy turned to her, his eyes wide. “You didn’t hear?”

“I’ve been sort of…underground.”

He grinned, and those same eyes went solid black. “Probably for the best, Meg. After all, Crowley’s looking for you. Though I don’t know…he’s got other things on his mind right now.”

She let out an impatient sigh. “Uh huh. So maybe you should tell me what’s going on and then let me worry about Crowley.”

“I could. Or I could take you downstairs myself, since the boss man’s bound to come back sometime.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward in a bid for patience. It didn’t work. She offered the demon a tight grin and then grabbed him around the neck and shoved him into a nearby alley.Pressed her stolen angel blade against his liver and twisted. “Listen, sweetheart, I’ve had enough. I don’t have time for your bullshit. Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I won’t skewer you. Got it?”

He swallowed and tried to break her hold. She squeezed and he yelped. “Yeah, okay, sorry. It’s nothing personal.”

“It never the fuck is. Now what is going on?”

“I don’t know the details. Word on the street is that some angel…look, I’m just repeating what I’ve heard, okay?”

She made an impatient gesture.

“Right. Some angel apparently opened the door to Purgatory and sucked down a bunch of the monster souls there and now is calling himself God. He’s killing people all over, like smiting left and right. I don’t know. What the fuck, right? Angels. Fuck.”

Stunned yet strangely unsurprised, she let him go without another word, and he smoked out. She wandered out of the alley and back into the street. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth, but she didn’t notice them. The world had gone quiet, the regular noises of traffic and humanity drowned out by the roaring in her head.

“Oh, Clarence,” she whispered. “You fucking moron. Now they’ve got no choice.”

He was killing humans by the hundreds. The Winchesters would have to stop him. They would have to kill him.

She closed her eyes. Opened them again.

She would have to let them.  
_Flash_

Cas opened his eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Strange scents—herbs and incense—surrounded him, and he felt muddle-headed. It was an unfamiliar sensation, as unfamiliar as…coming to. He sat up slowly and raised a hand to his aching head.

“Ow,” he muttered.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Remy said from the doorway.

“Why was I…not awake?” Cas said. His mouth was parchment dry, and his tongue felt huge and swollen. Remy offered him a mug, and Cas accepted with a grimace.

“It’s just tea. It’ll help with the headache, too. Maya got a bit…carried away, I’m afraid. She’s young.” He lifted his hands. “ _C’est la vie_. You’ll be fine. You would be much worse off if you’d interrupted the spell, and so would your demon girl.”

Cas nearly dropped the mug as he bolted upright. “Where is she? Is she all right? She was in a great deal of pain.”

“There’s an understatement,” he said with a quirk of his brows. “She’s still out, but it’s more peaceful now. At this point we just have to wait. Either she’ll wake up…or she won’t.” He held up a massive paw. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but that’s what it is.”

“How long?”

Remy glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six now. Dawn. We’ll know by noon.” He smiled at Cas’ expression, teeth a white flash in the darkened room. “There’s a cycle to these things, angel. You should know that.” There was a pause. “You should get some rest. You’ll need it.”

“I’m an angel. I don’t need rest.”

He chuckled, a deep rumble. “You will.” A small bag flew toward Cas, but his reflexes were still sluggish and it hit him in the forehead. “Mojo bag,” Remy said. “For your problem.”

“Ah.” He plucked it from where it had landed and studied it with a deep frown. “What’s in it?”

“You wanna know?”

He considered another moment and then tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. “No. Probably not.”

“Good choice.” Remy’s face turned grave. “I warned you it was gonna hurt, Castiel. I might be a lot of things, but a liar ain’t one of ‘em. Remember that.”

“I will. Thank you,” he said in an even tone.

He shook his head. “Your sangfroid takes some gettin’ used to.”

Cas’ mouth twisted and he looked away. “Yes. So I’ve been told.” He looked back, deep blue eyes troubled. “Thank you, Remy. May I go sit with Meg?”

Remy made an expansive gesture. “Be my guest. She’s still out in the garden. Can’t bring her inside.”

He finished off the tea and handed the mug back. Rose on mostly steady legs. “I’ll find the way.” He disappeared in a rustle of wings, and Remy just laughed.

“Show boatin’ angels,” he muttered.

_Flash  
_ She had been watching him for a long time. She knew when he emerged from the river, naked and dripping and reborn. She followed him at a distance, kept him safe when animals and other, less innocent, creatures might prey on his helplessness. She saw the woman approach him. Offer him her coat. Take her home with him.

And marry him, for fuck’s sake. What a freak. Who marries the weird naked guy they find in the woods? Whatever.

Meg was in hiding, trying to keep one step ahead of Crowley and his goon squad, but she still kept tabs on Clarence. His new “wife” had named him Emmanuel and dragged him around the country as a traveling healer. He seemed content, happy that he was doing some good in the world. He had no memory of what he really was, and that was the only thing that kept him safe.

She wasn’t there the day Dean Winchester came knocking. She should have known he’d come eventually. It was why she watched so keenly. But she’d gotten complacent. And bored, truth be told. Emmanuel and his saintly wife were fucking  _boring_ , and Meg had better things to do.

When she returned, she knew at once Cas was gone. The house reeked of sulfur, even from a distance. “Fuck,” she muttered. The one day…

The wife told her everything, and she didn’t even have to get snarky about it. Boring, boring, boring. She stowed her knife—still shiny and clean—and set off after them. They only had an hour’s head start. The trickiest part would be persuading Dean not to kill her on sight.

Oh well. She was creative. A fast talker. She’d think of something.

Someone had to look out for that idiot cloud hopper, and she didn’t really think it was gonna be the Winchesters. Not after what happened last time they met.

_Flash  
_ “You should come watch the bees with me sometime, Meg.”

“Dean and Sam will be here soon. We don’t have time to watch bees right now.”

“There’s always time for bees. That’s what the bees have taught me.” His face went serious. “I’m concerned about the bees, Meg. Deeply concerned.”

“Yeah, I’ve read about that. The bees dying out. They give you a clue about what’s causing it?”

He glanced toward the window, brow furrowed. “They’re…agitated. In general. General bee agitation. They would just like some peace.”

“Peace. Bees want peace?” she said with a skeptical lilt to her mouth.

His head came around again. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? Even you.”

“Ha!” Suddenly making the bed absorbed the entirety of her attention. “I’m a demon, Clarence. Demons aren’t big on peace.”

“You knew peace, once. I can see it. It left its mark on you. Like a handprint.”

“Like a scar, you mean.”

His head tilted as he considered. “Perhaps.”

A silence fell as she concentrated on getting the corners perfect and tried to ignore his penetrating stare. He took a step and reached toward her bent head. “Meg—”

Her phone went off, and she’d never been more relieved to hear it. “They’re here,” she said. “Stay put. I’ll go bring them up. No wandering off, Castiel. I mean it.”

He frowned, but eventually nodded and wandered to the window. “I shall abide.”

Her mouth quirked in spite of the tension still humming through her. “You do that, big guy. I’ll be right back.”

He glanced back over his shoulder with a distracted little smile. “Of course you will, Meg. Always.”

She made a face at him, rolled her eyes at his crazy Yoda-in-the-garden act, and set off to find Tweedledum and Tweedletaller. They were gonna flip their shit, no matter how much she tried to prepare them. Who could really prepare them for  _this_? Not her problem. As long as they didn’t upset him and kept him mostly out of their bullshit, she was fine. Maybe she could even be done with this babysitting gig by this time tomorrow.

She rolled her eyes again. Who was she kidding? Clarence was right. She’d always be back for him. He’d left his handprint on her, and there was no washing that shit off.

Fucking angels.


	13. Noon in Louisiana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg's feeling better, and she has a new plan: let's kill Crowley.

**It was an old song;**  
 **I once knew every note and every line.**  
 **It was a long night**  
 **When I carried you and you carried me for a time.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Strange Girl"

He sat cross legged on the flagstones and watched her sleep. Her vessel seemed relaxed, the forehead smooth and the mouth soft. Her hands were loose at her sides, and occasionally her fingers twitched as she slept.

Inside the vessel, the demon looked quiet as well. The blazing onyx eyes were closed, and the brilliant red scales had darkened to a bloody crimson. Her wings—a mocking recreation of an angel’s, one of Lucifer’s cruel affectations—were folded along her spine.

He sighed and ran both hands back through his hair, an unusual and human gesture for the normally stoic angel. Watching her like this, so still and helpless, made him feel…out of his skin. Discomfited and ill-fitting, like Jimmy Novak’s body could no longer contain his angelic Grace. That wasn’t exactly it, because it wasn’t a feeling of overwhelming  _power_. Just the opposite, actually. More a feeling of overwhelming… _uselessness_.

How had they come to this, he and she? The first time they met he had tried to smite her, but he’d failed. Cut off from Heaven, his Grace deserted him and he was at her delighted, mocking mercy. Something in that moment, something in her eyes or her face or…even now, he still wasn’t sure, but  _something_  had given him pause. And so he’d stopped. And held her. And studied her with more care and thought than he’d ever given to a demon.

He’d thrown her into the holy fire because he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. He hadn’t liked the queer sensations that stirred through him when he stared down into her face, all heavy-lidded eyes and droll smile. It wasn’t desire. Not yet. More…curiosity. But an angel shouldn’t be curious about a demon, especially one who was so…bothersome.

He could have ignored the curiosity if it hadn’t been for the kiss. He blamed Dean for that, at least partially. His penchant for pornography. If Castiel hadn’t watched that film, hadn’t started wondering what all the fuss and bother was about.…

Hester had said Castiel was lost from the moment he laid his hand on Dean to pull him up from Hell, and it was true. It was also true that he’d been lost from the moment he kissed the demon called Meg. He remembered it now like it was happening again. The warm, spicy scent of her. The bite and prick of thorns. The soft heat of her mouth and the rich, stinging rush of flavor: cinnamon and ripe peaches and smoke.

He had saved her life when he should have killed her. He had allowed her to lead him down a path of corruption and sin. In return, she had stood by him when he had made the worst, most foolish blunders of his long, long existence. When everyone else had—rightly, as much as it pained him to admit it—turned their backs, she was the one who shrugged and smiled and told him everyone fucks up sometimes (her words, not his). If her smile had been tinged with regret, at least her words were free of judgement.

She’d stayed by him in the hospital, too, when he’d taken on the burden of Sam’s madness. He had had no memory of their former…attachment…but she, a demon on the run, an impatient, prickly creature with no sense of responsibility, had stayed all that time. It still boggled his mind, and he’d had a year and more to digest the idea.

Now as she lay (hopefully) healing, the sun wheeling overhead in its inexorable course, Cas had an unshakeable, superstitious fear that if he so much as blinked, he would lose her.  _Lose_  her, as though he had ever really had her. As though anyone could ever lay claim to such an impossible creature, a being of fire and thorns and pure contrary will.

“For  _fuck’s_  sake, Castiel, you  _think_  louder than anyone I’ve ever met. Will you please go lurk somewhere else?”

He stared down at her, astounded. “Meg…?” he rasped.

Her eyes opened to fix him with an irritated glare. “No, Clarence, the Easter Bunny. Who the fuck do you think?”

He blinked warily and shifted his weight. “You seem…irritable.”

“Your firm grasp on the obvious has never been in question. I feel like I have the mother of all hangovers, the sun is beating down on me, I have a crick in my neck from sleeping on rocks, and you’re hovering over me like a damn mother hen. I’m just  _peachy_.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His brow furrowed. Cranky was to be expected, and he was used to it. “Yes, but…are you…well?”

She paused in her grumbling to take stock. “I don’t know yet.”

“I should go get Remy.” He started to his feet, but her hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of trench coat.

“Don’t you dare,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You were annoyed with me for hovering,” he said with a frown.

“Doesn’t mean I wanna be left alone. Here, help me up.”

“Are you sure—?”

“Don’t argue with me, featherbrain. Just help me up.”

He cast an agitated glance over his shoulder, hoping that the sheer force of his will would cause Remy or even Maya—whom he’d been carefully avoiding since the awkward incident earlier—to appear. When it became obvious that neither one was manifest, Cas let out a small sigh and scrambled to his feet with none of his usual grace.

She rolled her eyes at his fussing and held out her hands. He pulled her up gingerly, and she leaned against him as the garden spun in mad circles. “Fuck me,” she muttered. “I think I might, um, puke.”

“I wasn’t aware that demons were able to vomit.”

“We’re about to find out.” She doubled over and was, to his fascination, sick for quite a long time. He held her hair back and tried to stand clear. When she finally subsided into dry heaves, he offered her a handkerchief and she accepted it with a shaking hand.

“Good!” Remy boomed from the porch. “There’s that poison, then. All out and waterin’ my hydrangeas. They can take it, I ‘spect, at least a might better than you can, demon girl.” He clomped down the steps and offered her a glass. “Drink this on up, now. You’ll need it.”

“Fuck, Remy, keep your voice down,” she said, her own voice sounding raspy and damaged. She sipped the concoction and pulled a face. “What is this?”

“Water and herbs,  _cher_. What else? Drink it.”

“Remy,” Cas said, “I don’t wish to be rude, but is she all right? Is the poison out of her system now?”

He scratched his chin and gave Meg a long, speculative look up and down. Finally a massive shoulder rippled. “Hard to say for sure. Tricky business, this. I did my best, but she was far gone.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she growled.

“Humph. You listen to ol’ Remy, demon girl! I know you is prickly and prideful and stubborn as a damn mule, but there is some things not even you can change. That Crowley, he a bitter one. Bitter and vengeful, and when he finds out his claws ain’t in you no more, he gonna come huntin’. You ready for him?”

She finished off the bitter dregs of his brew and handed the glass back to him. “I’m always ready for Crowley, Remy. A hundred years in his dungeon didn’t do much but teach me how he thinks. I know he’s coming.”

“Yeah. You know how he thinks. That’s why you was ready for them blue-lipped warlocks and they worm,” he said with a snort. His eyes narrowed. “Anyhow, it’s time you two was gettin’ on. I got work to do. Can’t have no demon girl and her angel hangin’ ‘round my house. Bad for business.”

He sniffed. Licked his finger and held it up. “Wind’s changin’. Someone new in town. My money says they’s drivin’ a shiny black Impala and lookin’ for an angel. What say, Castiel? Sound familiar?”

He stiffened. “Sam and Dean are here? Why?”

Meg’s mouth curved in a familiar droll grin. “Why do you think, feathers? You didn’t call to let them know you’d be out late and they got worried. Typical.”

“Y’all get on, now,” Remy said. “I can’t have no Hunters, neither. This ain’t no train station.”

“We’re going,” Meg said. She took Cas’ arm and started to lead him away. Stopped after a few steps and made an awkward, jerky turn back. “Remy—”

“Don’t thank me,  _cher_. I did it to settle the debt between us. Now the debt is clear. A life for a life.”

After a moment she inclined her head in a quiet nod. His eyes were as achingly blue as the wash of sky above them, but for an instant she saw a shadow pass across his face, dark with foreboding and portent. She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on Castiel’s sleeve. Remy’s head tilted, and his smile was old and knowing.

“Let’s go, Clarence,” she said.

Cas wasn’t the best at reading faces, and he felt he’d missed an entire conversation in those few silent heartbeats. He glanced between Remy and Meg, nonplussed. “Meg—”

“Let’s  _go_ ,” she said again, brusquely.

There was a stirring of wings and they reappeared on a side street not far from Remy’s pawnshop. Meg staggered and Cas steadied her with a worried frown. She turned to him. Gripped the lapels of his coat and pressed her forehead against his chest. Took several deep, gulping breaths and shook until he thought her bones would rattle with it.

“Meg,” he murmured into her hair, “Meg, what is it? Are you ill? Is it the poison?”

She shook her head, and when she finally looked up he was astounded to see tears on her cheeks. Her face was ravaged, bleak and heartbroken and impossible, but when he raised his hand to wipe the wetness away, she jerked her head back.

“I’ll be fine, Clarence,” she said. “I’ll be fine just as soon as Crowley’s a memory. Let’s make that happen, okay?”

“Meg, I’m not sure—”

“Don’t fucking  _argue_  with me, Castiel. Just tell me we can do it.”

“Of course we can do it. You’re a pureblood demon, a Queen amongst your kind. I’m an angel of the Lord. Sam and Dean will be up for it, I’m sure. Between the four of us, Crowley hardly stands a chance.”

Her mouth curved in a sweet, poisonous smile, and her green eyes went solid black. “That’s what I like to hear, hot wings. That’s just music to my ears.”

* * *

The Impala let out a throaty growl as Dean accelerated down Marguerite’s uninspiring main street. It was just after noon, but the day was already drifting toward hot this far south. The sky was an azure blaze and the glaring sun made the sad little town look somehow even sadder.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean said, “look at this place. I’ve been here five minutes and I’m ready to go drown myself in the swamp.”

“No kidding. How can Meg’s ‘ear to the ground’ guy hear anything around here?”

Dean drummed his fingers against the wheel. “It’s quiet?” he suggested.

“I guess it’s got that going for it.” He shifted in his seat and peered out the window. “Now what? How do we find them?”

“Doesn’t look like a big place. Surely a pissed off teacup demon and a weird guy in a trench coat have been noticed. They don’t exactly  _blend_.”

Sam glanced at him, face screwed up in a frown. “A… _teacup_  demon?”

“Yeah.” He held his hand up, fingers spread a tiny span. “Very small. Teacup.”

“Right. Maybe you should go ahead and pull over. I think the sun and lack of sleep are starting to get to you.”

“Hey,” Dean said and smacked his brother on the shoulder. He gestured out the windshield. “Look who’s vertical.”

Sam squinted against the sun. “She looks like shit.”

“He doesn’t look much better. Think they need a ride?”

“They’re heading this way, so probably.”

“Damn hitchhikers.” He pulled over to the curb and cut the engine. Cranked down his window and offered a wave.

“Dean, Sam,” Cas said. His tone was relieved. “We heard you were in town. I apologize for not contacting you, but it’s been a long night.”

“You coulda called, Cas,” Dean said in a gruff voice.

“Ah. I seem to have lost my phone. In Purgatory. Or perhaps when I was dead, before Purgatory. I’m unsure.”

“I left mine in Hell,” Meg drawled with a saccharine smile.

“You look like the bottom of somebody’s shoe,” said Dean. “Did you get your information or not?”

“Your concern is touching, Dean. Since you asked, we did one better. We got the cure. Apparently I’m all better now.”

“Great. Guess this is goodbye. Have a nice life; hope I never see you again.” He started to roll the window up again, but her hand on the door stopped him.

“Not so fast, freckles. Like I said, I’m all better and ready to talk shop. I have a job for you. It pays  _real_  sweet, too.”

Cas shifted and reached for her. “Meg, perhaps—”

“We talked about this, Clarence. Did you think I was kidding?”

His brow creased. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

Dean and Sam shared a glance and Dean waved her back from the car. They climbed out and Sam came around to join them, a questioning look in his eyes. Meg smirked and rested a hand on her cocked hip.

“Glad I have your attention, boys. You’re gonna wanna hear this, I promise.”

“What kind of job, Meg?” Sam said. “This town doesn’t seem like a hotbed of…well, anything.”

She chuckled, low and sultry. “Well, let’s see. You’ve got a sweet ride and half a brain between you. I’ve got an angel and a killer rack. What the hell. Let’s kill Crowley.”

* * *

“She’s fucking nuts, that’s what she is! Look, I want Crowley ganked as much as the next guy, believe me. I hate Crowley’s stupid smug face! But you can’t just make a  _plan_  to  _kill_  the King of Hell. It’s not that simple!”

“I’m standing right here, Deanikins.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten. We can’t seem to get rid of you. Are you sure you’re cured, because I think that poison has made you  _fucking nuts_!”

“Dean,” Cas said. He rested a hand on his friend’s arm. “Meg is very passionate about this issue. I share many of your reservations, but she has asked for my help and I said I would. We would like your assistance, as well.”

“Let’s all just stop and  _think_  for a second,” Sam said. “First, how do we get to him? Just summon him and stab him when he pops in? Would that really work?”

Meg let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “We won’t have to summon him. He’s going to come looking for me once he realizes I’m not under his thumb anymore, probably very soon. He’ll come here.”

“You know this how?” Dean said, every line of him tense with outraged skepticism.

“A little bird told me,” she said with weary disgust. “I just  _know_ , Dean. We have to stop him when he gets here. As  _soon_  as he gets here.” She looked away. Bit down on her lip. “As soon as he gets here,” she repeated softly.

“Is this about what happened back at the house?” Cas said.

“What house?” Dean said just as Sam said, “What happened?”

“Meg was cured by an old acquaintance of hers, a practitioner of Hoodoo named Remy Abellard. There was something odd just before we left. Something I didn’t understand.”

Dean snorted. “There’s a first.”

“This isn’t about Remy,” she said, and though her voice was hot, it lacked conviction. “It’s about Crowley. Look at the shit he’s pulled over the years.” She thrust a finger at Sam and Dean. “Bringing back your grandpa with promises of resurrecting your mom. Making you guys bring him monsters for his little reindeer games. Stealing your friend’s soul and trying to renege on the deal. Letting you get sucked into Purgatory so he could get his hands on the prophet.”

She pivoted toward Cas. “Tempting your innocent ass into a deal so he could get Purgatory. Going behind your back to team up with Raphael.”

“In all fairness,” Cas said soberly, “that was after I told him our deal was off.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “Holding me in Hell and doing things to me that your sweet, angelic mind can’t even  _imagine_. Dean. You know. You have an idea. Over a year, Dean. No, he’s not Alastair, but he’s hardly a Girl Scout.”

Dean blanched and looked away. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and closed his eyes. Finally he shook his head and met her blazing eyes. “Fuck it. Yeah, okay. I’m in. Let’s gank the motherfucker.”

She trembled as her rage began to transform into something new and odd and unfamiliar. Hope? Fuck that; she was a demon.  _Hope_  was as foreign and impossible as  _love_. “Sam?” she said.

He stared hard at her, his expression keen and probing. “You mean this, don’t you?”

“That’s a stupid question, Sasquatch.”

Again, the double image of her: fire and smoke and hate; fear and sadness and a spark of something he couldn’t name. He knew her well, better than he’d like, better than he’d ever wanted to know a demon (even Ruby, total different definition of  _intimate_  there), and he knew there was something more to this than a simple, sudden desire for Crowley’s head. She’d wanted Crowley dead before—it’s what had made them allies back then, in that monster prison—but this was different.

At last he nodded. “Yeah, Meg. I’m in, too. Crowley’s toast.”

“Oh, Winchesters, I’m pleased as punch. I’d kiss you both right now if it wouldn’t make the angel all jealous and grumpy. Come on, boys. Lots to do, and so little time to do it.”


	14. Let's Kill Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas has a conversation with Naomi and remembers it, and Meg and Sam get jumped by demons.

**But the day will come when it falls like a cheap house of plastic.**  
 **And the cards we were dealt, tossed like a storm in the sky.**  
 **'Cause you can only lie for so long before you get something drastic.**  
 **And the kids are lined up on the wall, and they're ready to die.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Kids Are Ready to Die"

“Hello, Castiel,” Naomi said, her voice cool and businesslike. She stood before the desk, arms crossed over her chest, body tense with disapproval.

“Naomi,” he said warily. “I thought you were sending angels to Marguerite. I have yet to see them.”

The muscle near her eye twitched. “Plans change.”

“Ah. Lucky me.” For the first time he spared the energy to be curious. He slid his hands into his pockets and wandered to the windows. “What’s out there?” he said. “More offices? What is this place?”

Her brows flicked upward. “You know it’s Heaven, Castiel.”

He made an impatient gesture. “Yes, but  _where_?  _Whose_?”

“No one’s. This is…the home office, for lack of a better term. The hub.”

His forehead creased. He studied her through shrewd hooded eyes. “And you’re the boss?”

She snorted and shook her head. Rubbed her temple and offered him a bemused smile. “Hardly. I just work here,” she said. He thought she’d never seemed so… _normal_. Human. Which, for an angel, was decidedly abnormal.

“So the decision to withdraw the attack came from above you.”

She hesitated. “You aren’t here to ask questions, Castiel,” she said at last.

“I see.” He made a slow lap around the office before he came to a stop in front of her and smiled, thin and cold. “Then why am I here, Naomi?”

“How is the demon?”

“Better, it seems. Out from under Crowley’s thumb.”

“You think.”

“We hope.”

“But you don’t  _know_.”

He frowned. “We haven’t had occasion to test it yet.”

“Hhmm,” she said, a low sound of disapproval. “If she is? What then?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. He fought against the urge to tell her, but it was overwhelming. “Crowley will come looking for her. The Winchesters, Meg, and I will be waiting for him.”

Naomi’s gaze sharpened. She took a step closer. “Waiting how?”

“Waiting to kill him.”

She drew in a breath. “Castiel, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t kill the King of Hell.”

“I think of all people, Heaven would want Crowley dead.”

She waved her hand in an irritated dismissal. “Better the devil you know. Crowley has been very careful to keep the demon ranks thin of ambition or talent. There’s no one—no one—who could possibly take his place were he to die. Hell would be leaderless. The only thing worse than having a King of Hell is having  _no_  King of Hell.”

That gave him pause, but he shook it off. “Naomi—”

“Castiel. I’m attempting to be reasonable. I could simply order you not to do this, but I understand your point of view in this matter. Crowley is a demon, one you have very personal reasons to dislike. If he were any  _other_  demon, we wouldn’t stand in your way. As it is…” She trailed off with a little shrug.

“The Winchesters plan to close the Gates. What will Hell’s politics matter when they succeed?”

She fidgeted. Turned away as though she couldn’t bear to see his face when she spoke. “They won’t succeed.”

He blinked, too astonished to be angry. Yet. “I’m sorry?”

She spun back, her mouth a hard line. “You will ensure their failure. The Gates of Hell must remain open. There is a balance to the Universe, Castiel. An order. Closing the Gates would disrupt it to the point of pure chaos. We cannot allow that to happen.”

He lowered his head, and when he raised it again, his eyes were molten. “No.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Castiel.”

“They are my friends,” he said, voice low and barbed and deadly. “I will not betray them again.”

She seemed to deflate, the righteous fury draining from her on a soft exhalation. She sagged against the desk and fixed him with a wary look. “Do you think this pleases me, Castiel? Any of this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know you.”

“Know that I’m your sister, and I only have your best interests in mind. But I have my orders, too. I can’t disobey.” Her face twisted. “Not all of us have the luxury of free will.”

The venom in her tone surprised him. He wasn’t sure how to respond to it, so he set it aside for now. “Orders from whom, Naomi? I know our Father isn’t here. Michael is gone. Gabriel, Raphael. Who is left?”

Her gaze drifted away a moment. Became unfocused and infinite. “Heaven is a complex place, Castiel,” she finally said. “You were a soldier. One of many, a face in the crowd.” Her eyes found his again, and he was stung by what he saw. “Be glad.”

“Naomi…” He let the unfinished thought evaporate, because he had no idea what to say. He shifted. “I made her a promise,” he managed.

Her mouth quirked. She snapped to attention and straightened her jacket. Her gaze sharpened, and it was like the last few moments had never happened. “We put little stock in your promise to your demon… _companion_. Crowley must stay in power. Those are your orders. Are we clear?”

“There has to be another way. He—”

“ _He_  understands how to play the game, Castiel. Do you?”

“You know this isn’t the right thing, Naomi.”

She sniffed and wouldn’t meet his furious eyes. “You have your orders. Goodbye, Castiel.”

* * *

“Cas! Yo, Cas,” Dean said. He snapped his fingers in front of the angel’s spaced-out eyes. “You awake there, buddy?”

“What? Yes, Dean. Yes, I’m awake. I…” He rubbed his chest, the spot where he’d stashed Remy’s mojo bag. It was burning. “I’ve been away,” he said.

“Yeah, I noticed. Away where?”

He blinked and tugged the bag from his jacket pocket. Stared down at it in fascination. “I think it worked.”

“What’s that? Hex bag? I didn’t think an angel would need a hex bag.”

“Similar. A mojo bag. Meg’s friend gave it to me. Dean, there’s something I should tell you.”

He had been sorting through the contents of the Impala’s trunk, but something in Cas’ tone made him pause. He eyed his friend over a pile of weapons and gave a little half smile. Yep, this was gonna require his full attention. He slammed the lid and leaned back against the car’s bumper. “What’s up?” He held up a hand. “If this is about sexy times with Meg, I don’t think I can handle it. Anything else, okay. But that…? Yeah. No.”

Cas frowned, nonplussed. “I…no. Nothing like that.”

“Thank God. Okay, hit me.”

“I believe I know why I killed Samandriel, and why I had the meltdown in the warehouse.” He told Dean what he could remember about Naomi, including her orders to keep Crowley alive. Dean’s expression grew increasingly troubled as he spoke, and when he finally finished, the Hunter growled out several low expletives.

“I would have told you sooner, had I known,” Cas said. “I had no memory of any of this until now.”

“That little bag made you remember all this shit?”

He stared down at it. Gave it a hesitant poke. “Apparently. Of course, there might still be plenty I can’t remember.”

“Yeah,” Dean said and rubbed his chin. He suddenly needed a drink like he hadn’t since before Purgatory, and his restless gaze roamed the forlorn little street in search of a bar. He found one, halfway down, and sure enough it was open at two o’clock on a Tuesday. But now that he’d seen it the need faded, and he swallowed it down to a mild twinge, like a sad memory.

“Dean…?” Cas said. Something had flashed over his face, a spasm of pain, there and gone so fast that Cas could almost (almost, if he weren’t an angel) believe he’d imagined it. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine, Cas,” he said, brusquely. “As fine as I can be, considering you just told me you’ve got some angelic bitch in your head giving you orders. She doesn’t want Crowley dead, and she doesn’t want the Gates closed. You’re full-on Sinatra in  _The Manchurian Candidate_ , huh?”

“I don’t—”

“Understand that reference, I know. Question is, what do we do about it? Have you told Meg about the mojo bag?”

“No. Remy gave it to me while she was out, and there hasn’t been time since.”

“She’s gonna be pissed.”

“That’s an understatement, yes.”

He hesitated. “But, you know—and I say this with my loathing of her still fully intact—I think of all people, she’ll probably understand. The brain thing.”

Cas looked away, brows drawn together over stormy midnight eyes. “It is very difficult for Meg to trust anyone.”

“She’s a demon. It’s hard to trust when you can’t be trusted.”

Cas made an impatient noise, and Dean lifted his hands. “What? Come on, man. I know you’ve got the hots for her, but be realistic. She  _is_  a demon.”

“We’ve all done terrible things, Dean. We all have reasons to atone.”

A small silence.

“Why do you think I didn’t kill her back on that road? I could have. It’s before I knew about you and her. It would’ve been easy, as off her game as she is.” He shrugged a shoulder and glanced away. “I guess a year in Purgatory teaches you a thing or two about atonement.”

“Nothing is black and white anymore, my friend. You taught me that. Remember?”

Their eyes met, and Dean’s mouth tightened in an odd little smile. “Yeah, Cas. I remember.” He let out a breath and shook his head. “It’s why I’m not gonna stab your girlfriend, as much as I want to.”

He reared back in alarm. “She’s not my—”

“Dude. Come on.”

Cas shoved his hands into his pockets. Pulled them out again. Frowned. Shifted his weight first one way and then the other. “Don’t ever use that word in front of her.”

Dean’s lips twitched as he tried to smother a grin. “Sure, Cas. No problem. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the little lady.”

He stared, aghast. “Dean, I don’t think you understand—”

He couldn’t hold back any longer, and the laugh burst out of him in an explosion of mirth. He doubled over, hands on his knees, and succumbed to hysterics. “Cas! Fuck, if you could see your  _face_!”

Cas eyed him. “I’m so glad I could be the source of your amusement,” he said, dryly.

Dean swiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and clapped the angel on the shoulder. “You’re just too easy, Cas. It’s like fish in a fuckin’ barrel. Grumpy, trench coat wearin’ fish.”

“I don’t believe fish have occasion to wear—”

“Yeah. Okay. Anyway. Are you gonna tell Meg about the angel in your head or not?”

Cas tucked the mojo bag into his coat again. “Not yet. Remy said the bag will allow me to fight Naomi’s orders as well as remember them. There’s no reason to worry Meg without cause.”

Dean’s brows quirked. “Look, man, I know it’s not really my place, but…are you sure that’s a great idea? What happens if you can’t fight it?”

His face fell into troubled lines. “I’ll tell her if it proves necessary.”

“Fair enough,” Dean said after a thoughtful pause. He looked around. “Where the hell are those idiots anyway? One little supply run shouldn’t be taking so long.”

Cas surged forward. Gripped Dean’s arm like a vise. “He’s here.”

“Crowley? Are you sure?” Cas’ expression was livid. “You’re right, stupid question. Where?”

“Near.” His head pivoted, and Dean flinched at the blaze of Grace in his eyes. “Grab what you need. We’re going.”

Dean blinked and fumbled for the keys. Opened the trunk and tossed the duffle over his shoulder. “Hit it,” he said.

They were gone before the words were even out of his mouth.

* * *

“Did you get the pie?” Sam said.

Meg held up the bright packages. “Apple and cherry. And, look, Sno Balls. Clarence loves these things.”

Sam pulled a face.

“I know. Coconut, gross. Whatever. It’s not worth trying to talk him out of it. Angels.” She rolled her eyes and added the junk food to Sam’s pile at the cash register.

Spray paint, salt, lighter fluid, road flares, heavy duty rope, two copies of the Bible, and several cheap plastic crosses. The kid behind the counter eyed the items a moment. “Y’all plannin’ an exorcism?” he said without irony.

“Somethin’ like that,” Meg drawled. She tossed a pack of bubblegum on top of everything and winked. “The big guy’s boyfriend’s a priest.”

“Yup,” Sam said with a grimace, “and she’s the flying nun.”

“Cool,” he kid said without missing a beat. He rattled off their total, Sam handed him a credit card, and Meg gathered their bags. She stepped outside and he joined her a few moments later. She stood on the sidewalk like a statue, her small body tense, the bags forgotten in her hands. He peered down at her as she stared across the street with a peculiar intensity, her face set in hard lines.

“What is it?”

“Maybe nothing. It was a long night.”

“You’ve got good instincts. What is it?”

She shook her head, distracted. “Remy’s shop. The pawnshop across the way. It’s closed.”

“That’s the friend who helped you? The hoodoo guy?” He squinted against the blinding sun and tried to make out details about the store, but it was too bright. “You’re right. It was a long night. He probably just wanted a day off. The perks of owning your own business, right?”

She gave him a disgusted look. “Do you ever stop to listen to the words that come out of your mouth?”

He let out a huff of impatience. “Fine, Meg. What do you want to do? Go over there and check it out?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “The shop’s washed down in salt. It’s clean.”

“What, then?”

“Remy’s house. We need to get there.”

“Great. Let’s head back to Cas and Dean. We’ll go together.”

It chafed. She wasn’t used to having a  _team_. She was a solo act, always had been. She glanced up at him, her eyes wary and her face…inscrutable.

“You asked for our help, Meg,” he reminded her, his voice gentle enough to infuriate her. Except it didn’t, and  _that_  kind of infuriated her all on its own.

She looked away and cleared her throat. Shrugged a shoulder like it made no difference. “Sure, whatever. Avengers assemble and whatnot.”

His lips quirked. He opened his mouth to reply, but a voice cut him off.

“You forgot your receipt.”

It was the cashier from inside. Sam turned toward him, brow crinkling. “Oh. Thanks, man. That was kind of above and beyond.”

“Sam,” Meg said, a choked hiss.

He didn’t wait for the kid’s eyes to change. He had the knife out of his jacket and into the boy’s chest before he could move. It sparked and glowed, and the lifeless body hit the sidewalk hard. Sam yanked the knife free and spun. Meg dropped the bags and pressed her back against Sam’s.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck this fucking shit.”

“Now, Meg my dear,” Crowley said as he stepped to the front of the crowd of demons that suddenly filled the street, “with a greeting like that, one might think you aren’t happy to see me. That would be such a shame, because I’m utterly  _delighted_  to see you.”

Sam raised the knife, but she shook her head once, a short jerk, and he lowered it again. Crowley gave a delighted cackle.

“That’s right, moose. Listen to her. You’re big, but we’ve got the numbers.” He glanced around in feigned confusion. “Speaking of, where’s your other half? Terribly inconvenient time for him to need a piss.”

Sam gave a tight grin. “Well, ya know. When you gotta go.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Meg said, angling her body to face him. She cocked her hip and pressed a balled fist against it. “We’re kinda busy here, and we don’t have time for a bunch of chitchat.”

“All that time together, my furious darling, and I never did teach you the value of foreplay.” He let out a mournful sigh. “Ah well. Down to business, then.” He gestured, brows raised and lips curved in a petty little smirk. One of the demons tossed something from the back of the crowd, and it rolled to a stop at their feet.

“Holy shit,” Sam said. “Is that—?”

“A head,” Meg said, voice wary with disgust. “Yeah. That’s a head.” She couldn’t blame him for his disbelief: it looked like it had been used as a chew toy, and it was barely recognizable as human.

“Who, um. Whose…head…is it?”

Meg closed her eyes. Swallowed. When she opened them again, Sam could swear he saw the glimmer of tears there, but maybe it was just a reflection. “Her name was Maya,” she said. “Her alligator gumbo was the best in the state. She helped save my life last night.”

“Good! So glad you remember. I was worried, after the mess my boys made, that you might not.” Crowley rubbed his hands together. “So, my dear, now that you know I’m serious, we can do business.”

“I’m sorry?” she said.

He blinked. “The girl. Dead. It opens the floor for negotiations. You’re still in my employ, after all.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Crowley, you moron. You think killing some girl I knew for about five minutes is gonna change my mind about anything? What do I look like, a Winchester?”

“Um…?” said Sam.

She rolled her eyes. “Your crazy worm shit is out of my head. You don’t have anything on me anymore. We’re done. Get over it and move on.”

“Meg,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “it’s probably best not to antagonize the very angry demon when we’re grossly outnumbered.”

Crowley lowered his head. Stroked a finger down the bridge of his nose as though contemplating something that troubled him deeply. When he looked up again, his eyes were the color of blood. “I didn’t want it to come to this, Meg. I really didn’t. I’m afraid you’ve left me with no choice.” He turned away. “Bring her. Kill the moose.”

Meg whipped toward him, black hair flying and face livid. “If you die, Castiel will never forgive either of us,” she hissed. She pressed a flask into his hand and spun back to face the demons. “I’m coming! No need to get handsy.” She charged at them, and they were so surprised that they scattered.

It gave Sam the time he needed to grab a container of salt from the bags discarded on the sidewalk before the demons were on him. The flask, he discovered quickly, contained holy water. The words of an exorcism tripped off his lips. The knife flashed. Salt flew. Water splashed.

In the last glance Meg had of Sam Winchester as the demons bore her away, he was fighting more demons than she could count—so many—but he was holding his own. She had no idea how long he could last, but for the second time in her existence she mouthed a prayer and hoped someone was listening.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas must make a serious sacrifice in order to save Sam, and Dean is reluctant to risk themselves for Meg's sake.

**You seem so strange to me;**  
 **I must seem strange to you.**  
 **We're like two actors playing two parts.**  
 **Did you memorize your lines, 'cause I did.**  
 **Here's the part where I get so mad;**  
 **I tell you that I can't forget the past.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Graveyard Near the House"

Dean and Cas appeared with a whisper of wings that was drowned out by the sounds of battle. Dean tossed the duffle to the ground, clinging only to a sawed off loaded with salt, and surged forward. Cas’ hand on his arm stopped him. He spun toward the angel with a curse on his lips, but Cas merely held up his angel blade.

Dean tucked the shotgun against his side and took the weapon with a nod of thanks. Their eyes met in a moment of “don’t-you-even- _think_ -of-dying-you-assbutt” solidarity before they waded in. They could see Sam with his back against the wall, fighting at the center of a roiling mass of demons, but he was rapidly losing ground. The knife caught the sunlight as it rose and fell, but even as they watched it began to falter and slow.

Sam took a hard blow to the kidney and went down. They didn’t see him come up, and Dean let out a howl of fury and skewered the demon closest to him. Shot another full of rock salt. Cas smote one with each hand and they kept moving, working their way through the mob and toward Sam.

Gradually the demons realized that the greater threat was behind them, not the big Winchester on the ground, but the righteous angel and his well-armed companion. They shifted their attack, turned their attention away from Sam, but it was too late. Dean and Cas cut a swathe through them, and before the demons fully had time to adapt, they were at his side. Cas knelt. Grabbed Sam’s shoulder with one hand and Dean’s forearm with the other.

A stir of wings, and they were gone.

* * *

They found an abandoned shotgun cabin about five miles outside of town. It was right on the swamp, and the hum of insects and cry of bullfrogs were so loud Dean could barely hear himself think. He worried they might not be able to hear demons coming, either, but Cas assured him that wouldn’t be an issue. Cas popped back to retrieve the bag of weapons and the supplies Sam and Meg had bought, and Dean spent the next several minutes demon proofing their temporary hide out.

Sam was stretched out on a torn and stained mattress in what had once been the cabin’s front room. The place had obviously been abandoned for some time, and had found itself the residence of quite a few squatters in the interim. Used condoms, old liquor bottles, rusted beer cans, and wadded up fast food bags littered the floor. Cas kicked everything out of his way with a mild grimace of distaste and knelt beside the fallen Winchester.

He was unconscious and his color was bad. His arm hung at an awkward angle, and blood adhered his shirt to the skin all along his left side. Cas frowned, concern etching deep lines in his brow, and pressed a hand against Sam’s chest. His heartbeat was sluggish, and Cas could feel the spark fading even as he searched for it.

“Cas?” It was Dean, back from the demon proofing. “Gimme some good news, man. He’s gonna be okay, right?”

The angel sat back with a wary sigh. “His injuries are grave, Dean.”

“Yeah, I can tell that. He’s lost a shit ton of blood, and there’s a bone pokin’ out of his fuckin’ arm. Don’t you think you should get started?”

Cas looked up at his friend with hooded eyes, his face inscrutable. “I will do all that I can.”

Dean blinked. “Cas…” He paused and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. Swallowed hard and cleared his suddenly thick throat. When next he spoke, his voice was raw and harsh. “You better not be tellin’ me that you can’t save my little brother, Castiel. He’s dying because of  _your_  fucking girlfriend. A goddam  _demon_ , Cas! He is not dying for her; I don’t care if you have to burn out the fucking  _sun_  to get the power you need. You hear me, Cas?”

He hesitated. Then, “I hear you, Dean.”

“Good. Then, like I said, you should probably get started, because I’m thinkin’ time is of the essence.”

He turned back to Sam. Rested one hand on his forehead and the other over his heart. Grace began to glow from his fingertips, faint at first, but then more strongly. “Close your eyes,” he said over his shoulder, his voice echoing with  _other_.

Dean pressed his forearm over his face, and he felt the heat of Cas’ Grace against his skin. It soothed and burned at the same time, wonderful and unbearable, beautiful and terrible. There was a great  _whooshing_  sound, and a clarion call like the strike of the purest, sweetest bell he’d ever heard. The smell of ozone filled the air, and outside the bugs and frogs fell into awed silence. It was a perfect moment, a bubble of time caught in amber, and Dean wanted more than anything to drop his arm and see what was happening.

But he didn’t. And gradually the ringing subsided. The warmth faded. The insects and amphibians resumed their chorus. There was a rustle like that of enormous wings, and then Cas’ voice, calm and steady, “You may look now.”

Dean realized he was shaking as he lowered his arm to blink first at Cas, then at Sam. He still lay unmoving, but his skin wasn’t that weird-creepy-borderline-zombie gray color anymore, and his breathing was more regular. Dean closed his eyes a moment, almost as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, before he opened them again and offered Cas an apologetic little half smile.

“Jesus, man, I’m sorry. I was a total dick to you. I should’ve known you’d come through for us. You always do.”

Cas’ brow furrowed. “No, Dean, I don’t. You have every right to doubt me.”

Dean frowned and started toward him, but he turned away. He paused at the door and said without looking back, “I would never choose Meg over you or Sam. Not on purpose. Whatever…feelings…I have for her, it doesn’t change our history.”

Nonplussed, Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight. He didn’t want to talk about Cas’ possible  _feelings_  for Meg. She was a demon, low and dirty and despicable. Yeah, okay, she’d helped them out a few times…and she’d been pretty solid with Cas in the hospital…and it would’ve been a lot easier to just do what Crowley wanted and bring him Cas, Kevin, and the tablet rather than go through so much misery to get the worm poison out.

He sighed, long and hard. He didn’t want to give Meg the benefit of the doubt, ever. He didn’t want to see another side to her. He didn’t want to remember her words back at the bunker— _I like having options_. He wanted things to be simple. Cut and dried. Black and white. But he knew they weren’t, and that they hadn’t been for a long time. Cas had taught him that. Benny. So many things.

“So why all the drama?” he finally said. He winced, because it was lame and stupid and not at all what he wanted to say. Words had never been his forte, though, and he wasn’t about to dump all this shit on Cas now.

Cas lowered his head. Dean wished he could see his face. While it’s true the angel’s expressions were often fairly deadpan, over the years Dean had gotten the knack of reading the myriad tiny tells. The twitch around his eyes. The subtle flare of his nostrils. The tightening of his mouth. Now all he had to go on was body language, and that damn coat made things a lot trickier.

“I was afraid,” he said at last, his voice a low rasp.

Dean smothered another sigh. “Cas, come on. Spit it out. Afraid of what? That you wouldn’t have the juice? Why, because of the demons back there? That was small time for you.”

His shoulders hitched. “Yes.  _Small time_. It isn’t just them, though. A great deal of my energy is being expended…elsewhere.” He made a sharp gesture of dismissal. “I’m sorry, Dean. Sam will be fine after some rest. I, too, must recharge. If you need me, I’ll be out back. Meditating.”

“Cas—” He cut off the thought and shook his head. “Never mind. Just…thanks. For Sam. And be careful out there. The demon proofing doesn’t extend to the yard.”

Cas’ chin tilted sideways, as though he wanted to say something further, but instead he merely nodded and left. A few moments later Dean heard the back door open and close. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean said. “Angels, man. Just when you think you know a guy. Right, Sammy?”

Sam, still sleeping the sleep of the recently nearly dead, had nothing to say on the matter. Dean shook his head, pulled up an overturned milk crate, and sank down to wait.

* * *

Castiel stepped onto the sagging back porch and pressed a hand against his chest. The burning had become nearly unbearable, and with an exhausted, pained sigh he ripped the mojo bag out of its hidden pocket. It ignited with a puff of smoke and small burst of flame, and Cas held it as it smoldered.

So much for that, he thought with a resigned little frown. It had taken every drop of power he could call upon to pull Sam Winchester back from the brink of death, and that included the hot pulse of magic contained by Remy’s charm. He had pulled too much out and pumped too much back in, and in the end his Grace had overwhelmed it. It was gone, and so was Cas’ only defense against Naomi.

He still remembered her, though, and that was something. Maybe, since he’d had the bag on him when she’d given him the order to not kill Crowley, he’d be able to fight that one. Maybe it was only  _future_  orders he would be powerless against. He sighed and brushed the ash from his hands. That was a fool’s dream. It had been a small hope that he would be able to fight Naomi’s orders at all, but now…?

He lowered himself onto one of the splintery wooden steps and stared out over the swamp. The syrupy water undulated as creatures moved just beneath its surface and trailing ends of Spanish moss waved lazily in a whispered breeze. A dragonfly whizzed past, its wings catching the late sun’s light to flash like brilliant jewelry. The cypress trees here were old, and Cas wondered what they would say if he took the time to speak to them. So much, he was sure. Long tree thoughts, slow and careful and ancient.

Perhaps he should sit the battle out, then. Let Sam and Dean go find Meg without him. They could take Crowley, and despite Dean’s lingering anger, they would take care of Meg. Get her out safely. Except…

That didn’t seem like the best course of action. Yes, he might be compromised. He might be powerless to fight Naomi’s orders. He might not be able to help kill Crowley, or even try to do something to stop them from carrying out the plan…but he had to be there. Sam would be weakened by his ordeal, and who knew how they would find Meg. He, an angel of enormous power, couldn’t leave humans—even humans as capable as Dean and Sam—in the position to fight his battles.

Dean had already expressed his fury at the idea of Sam dying for Meg. Cas couldn’t ask them to go to war for her while he sat here and…what was the expression? Twiddled his thumbs. The Winchesters would probably be more or less content to leave Meg where she was and move on.

He shifted his weight and felt the step settle beneath him.

Perhaps that was unfair. Meg had possessed Sam for a time, and the younger Winchester seemed strangely sympathetic towards the thorny demon. Meg had described possession as an intimate experience, and though she had been teasing him at the time, he knew she also spoke somewhat honestly.

Dean…Dean was, as always, trickier. He tolerated Meg’s presence because she had proved useful in the past, and because he recognized her pain. Now that she was out from under Crowley’s thumb and free to roam, it was probably only Cas who stood between Meg and Dean’s knife. Probably. Except, Cas thought, Dean Winchester wasn’t nearly as hard as he pretended to be.

Meg’s voice echoed inside his skull. Her prayer pulled the gold-and-onyx chains that bound them ever tighter. He felt it like a constriction around his chest, and he rubbed at his sternum with a distracted frown. He had no choice. He had to go. If he couldn’t kill Crowley, so be it, but he had to help Meg. He’d been trapped in Purgatory, and then trapped inside a mental prison of his own making, and he’d left her. Forgotten about her. Crowley had her for over a year, and when he finally released her, her mind wasn’t her own and it had nearly killed her.

He refused to lose her again. Not like this. Not to Crowley.

The lowering sun painted the bayou in shades of honey and amber, and it cast a long shadow at his feet. He stared at it through narrowed eyes, and the longer he looked, the more he thought he could detect the darkened silhouette of wings unfurled.

* * *

It was full dark by the time Dean came outside to find him. Night things moved in the swamp, and a different insect chorus had picked up where the day shift had left off. The moon was a thin sliver overhead; it reflected eerily off the bayou’s shifting surface. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The air was heavy with the scents of water and rot. Swamp smells.

Dean summed it up succinctly: “Creepy as fuck out here,” he said with a sniff.

Cas stirred. His mouth twitched. “It can be a bit unnerving.”

“Sam’s awake,” Dean said after a moment. “Says he feels mostly okay. Kinda worn out. Hungry, but when isn’t he?”

“Ah.” He rose and straightened his coat. “I’ll go into town and find you some food. There are probably demons about, looking for you. It would be too dangerous for you to go.”

“That’s okay, we can—” But he was gone before Dean could finish the sentence. “Sure, yeah. Burgers sound awesome. Thanks for asking.” He shook his head and stomped back inside.

Sam flashed him a questioning look. “What’s up? Where’s Cas?”

“Oh, he just flitted off to get us some food.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, right. Nice. Dude’s actin’ squirrelly, sittin’ outside all afternoon, barely lookin’ me in the face after he patched you up.  _Angels_. What the fuck.”

Sam’s brow creased as he studied his brother. “It sounds like he has a lot on his mind, Dean. I mean, what you told me about this Naomi chick, and now Crowley has Meg again…it’s a lot to deal with, even for an angel. Maybe especially for an angel. They don’t cope well with stress.”

Dean paced the length of the tiny room, and when that wasn’t enough he circled through the next two rooms and back again. Sam mostly ignored him and cleaned his gun. He’d settled down eventually, or he wouldn’t and he’d finally talk about whatever was really bugging him.

“You know you almost  _died_  today?” Dean said.

There it was. Sam carefully laid the pieces of his weapon aside. Wiped the gun oil off his hands on an old shirt and offered his brother a tired grimace. “Yeah, Dean, I’m aware. I can still sorta feel the effects.”

Dean made an impatient gesture— _and?_

“And Cas healed me. I’m gonna be fine. I didn’t die.”

“No, but you could have! That demon bitch just  _left_  you—”

“Dean, no,” Sam said. “I told you. It wasn’t like that. Crowley had this huge gang of demons, and he told them to capture Meg and kill me. She gave me that flask of holy water and bought me some time. Crowley’s got her somewhere now doing God only knows what. We’ve gotta go get her, Dean. It’s the right thing to do.”

It was the third time he’d said it, and it didn’t get easier to hear with repetition. “What is it with you and demons, Sam?”

He absorbed the blow, his mouth compressing and forehead creasing. It was expected, and probably deserved, even if he was tired of hearing about it. “She’s not like Ruby, Dean. Yeah, I fucked up big time there. I admit it. But that was different.  _I_  was different. I understand why you hate her so much, I do, but you’ve gotta give her a chance. I’ve had her in my head. I know what I’m talking about.”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Man, I don’t know. This situation is so messed up. I trust Cas. I know he’s got Angela fuckin’ Lansbury in his head tellin’ him what to do and he’s all cuckoo for Meg’s cocoa puffs, but I still trust him.”

“He’s our friend, Dean. We  _should_  trust him.”

“I know. I know we should.” He spun away and threw out his arms in frustration. “She’s a  _demon_ , Sam! How am I supposed to forget everything she’s done over the years? Everything every fucking demon we’ve dealt with has done? It’s just  _wrong_.”

“No one is asking you to forget, Dean,” Cas said from the doorway. “If you don’t wish to accompany me, I understand. I’ll go alone.”

“No one’s saying that, Cas,” Sam said. “Right, Dean?” He pierced his brother with a pointed look, and Dean huffed out a sigh.

He let out a long breath and his eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “No, Cas. No one’s sayin’ that. I’m with you. As weird and twisted as it seems to me, you care about her. I guess that means there’s somethin’. A spark or a glimmer or whatever. So I’m with you.”

His mouth curved in a genuine smile. “I’m glad to hear it, Dean.” He held up a greasy take out bag. “I brought food. I know you generally prefer salad, Sam, but I thought you could use the protein.”

“Yeah, Cas. Thanks.” He unwrapped the burger Cas handed him and hesitated. “And thanks for, ya know…saving my life.”

“It was nothing,” he said, though of course it wasn’t.

“Any more visits from that Naomi chick?” Dean said around a huge bite.

His eyes flicked away. “She seems to be lying low for now.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Maybe we’ve caught a break for once and she’s gonna leave you alone.”

“Perhaps,” said Cas. “Perhaps we have.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg doesn't wait around for a rescue.

**Now I know that I'm blind**  
 **And that you're all I see.**  
 **And yeah I know it's not clever,**  
 **But I just want you with me.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

Meg sat cross legged on the flagstones in Remy’s back garden, her elbows braced on her knees and her chin in her hands. She sighed and ran a hand back through her hair. Shifted her ass on the hard rock. Adjusted the cuff of her jeans.

“Jesus  _fucking_  Christ,” she said to the demon posted as her guard. “If Crowley’s plan is to bore me to death, he’s finally doing something right for once. What the fuck is this shit?”

The demon’s black eyes flicked toward her and away. He was stoic, she had to give him that. She let out another huff and scratched her fingernail against the painted lines of the devil’s trap that bound her here. It sent a raw electric shock up her spine, and she couldn’t smother a hiss of pain.

Her guard smirked. “Nice try. The paint is infused with salt and a few other goodies. Your Hoodoo man is pretty useful with the right persuasion.”

Meg offered him a grin that was little more than a feral baring of teeth. “When I get out of here, cupcake, I’m gonna play jumprope with your entrails. Don’t worry: I won’t kill you first. I want us both to enjoy the fun.”

He snorted. “Word is you’ve gone soft. Your name used to mean something. Azazel’s daughter. Alastair’s apprentice. One of the last of the purebloods. Now you spend your time topside playing Winchester errand girl and angel fuck buddy. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you. Killing you would be a mercy.”

Her smile softened, and she rose to her feet, slow and graceful and sinuous, like a snake rising before its strike. “You just said the magic words, sweetheart,” she purred, low and throaty.

He looked taken aback, and his head tilted in confusion. “What magic words?”

“ _Angel fuck buddy_.” She tapped a fingertip against her lower lip. “Have you ever heard of anything so… _sinful_?” She made the word wicked, loaded it with honeyed promise. “What kind of  _temptation_  would cause a creature so righteous to fall so low? I can tell you one thing: it was a hell of a lot more than a stupid…little…apple.”

His eyes were saucer-wide as he stared at her, and they raked her up and down like greedy fingers. He swallowed and looked away. “You’re just…you need to shut up.”

“I’m a pureblood demon, Boy Friday. Do you know what that means?”

“I…you…no…?”

She crooked a finger at him. He started to take a step forward, but at the last minute he remembered the trap and stopped himself. He glared at her, and she smiled back, all wide-eyed innocence. She ran the tip of her tongue over her full upper lip, and he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the house. Her brow quirked, and with a muttered curse, he leaned in close, careful not to pass his feet over the edge of the trap.

“So…so what does it mean?” he said, choking a little on the words as her nail scraped down his cheek.

Her eyes went black, and her hands were around his head before he could move. She twisted, and his neck snapped with an audible  _crack_. The demon inside wasn’t dead, but the injury would slow him down. “It means I have a  _spark_ , you arrogant motherfucker.”

She yanked the knife off his belt and used the blade to scrape away enough paint to nullify the trap. The body started to twitch, and she knew it was time to make herself scarce. Demons would be guarding this place like fucking Fort Knox, and she had no clue where Clarence or the boys were. She didn’t even know if Sam were still alive.

Fuck that. No way big brother and angel cakes would let him die. It was just a few demons, and he had the knife and the holy water and the salt. He was the size of a fucking house (a really big house), and a one-man wrecking crew besides.

Not that she gave a shit. But Cas cared, and…

Fuck.

She gritted her teeth in frustration and shoved all thoughts of men or angels into a lockbox in the corner of her brain. She was perfectly capable of getting out of this mess on her own, and if they’d blown town, then fuck them. She’d rescue Remy (if he needed rescuing, and she really hoped to fuck he did) and kill Crowley without their help. First, of course, she had to get out of this yard and find a weapon. Any weapon. And the only weapons she knew of that could kill Crowley were that stupid knife and Clarence’s pig sticker.

So she was back to square one.

The garden was unnervingly quiet. Had Crowley really only left this one demon to guard her, and he a rank amateur? Where was the cavalry? She ducked under a magnolia tree and started to climb. The branches were old and thick, and she hopped from one to the other with ease. She peered through the heavy waxen leaves and nearly fell the fifty or so feet back to the ground.

She counted at least sixty demons, maybe more, and they had the place surrounded. A group of them were painting the house down with Enochian sigils, taking great care to not actually touch the salt-soaked wood. None of them were inside, she noticed. Remy’s protection spells insured that. Crowley was holding court in the front garden, and Remy was chained to a stake nearby. Okay, looked like he did need rescuing.

What had Crowley in such an uproar? Was all of this just for her? That seemed ridiculous. Yeah, of course he was pissed that she had worked against him and thwarted all of his oh-so-well-laid plans, but this seemed like overkill. A circus for no one. She shook her head and looked out the other way, toward the bayou.

Hum, better. Demons had a natural aversion to moving water, and they were steering well clear of the shadowed swamp. He hadn’t posted anyone near the shore, probably assuming any attacks would come from the landward side. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze roamed the winding trail from her current perch down to the water’s edge.

Shit. She hated water as much as the rest of her kind, and she had absolutely no desire to jump in that cesspool. But what choice did she have? Time was running short, and the sooner she got out of here, the better. Her new boyfriend would be up and yelling soon, and then all hell would break loose down there.

She bit her lip and contemplated the bayou. Her vessel might have known how to swim once, but her consciousness and memories were gone completely. Maybe there would be some muscle memory left? It wasn’t like Meg needed to breathe, but it would be nice to make some headway, and not just sink like a fucking stone.

“Fuck it,” she muttered. It was either brave the swamp or go back into that trap, and she knew she didn’t want to end up back there again. Whatever Crowley and his gang were gearing up for, she was certain it wasn’t going to end in cake and candles.

At least not for her.

She shimmied down the tree more quickly than she’d climbed it and made her way through the garden using the route she’d plotted from above. It was clear, and she only had to hide in a bush a few times. She hated being unarmed. She hated having to hide. At that moment she hated pretty much every other demon on the face of the planet.

She was halfway to the water when the alarm went up. She was surprised it had taken that long, but maybe her boy toy had been embarrassed about the ease with which he’d been taken in. He shouldn’t be. She was, after all, one hot piece of ass. And nothing was so tempting as the forbidden.

She stepped up the pace and hoped Crowley would assume she’d avoid the swamp as thoroughly as his own guards did. The closer she got the more she felt her skin crawl. She had no idea why demons hated water so much. She could only assume it had something to do with being born of Hellfire, conflicting elements, blahblahblah. It wasn’t all water—she loved a nice bath, after all, she thought with a smirk—just  _running_  water.

Things were getting loud behind her. The bayou was just ahead, and she clambered over an enormous cypress trunk and clung to it like a monkey. All she had to do was let go. The swamp’s natural noises combined with all the fuss and bother the demons were making would cover up any splash. She wasn’t worried about gators or snakes or any other type of swamp creature;  _they_  should probably be more worried about  _her_.

She stared down at the greenish surface, at the thin sliver of a moon reflected back at her all sick and wiggly. She sighed. “Fuck it,” she said again.

And let go.

* * *

 “You’re sure he’s still in town?” Dean said for the third or fourth time.

“I’m positive. Crowley is very near, and he has a large host with him,” Cas said. “I can sense their energy.”

“Why would he hang around?” sad Sam. “If I were him, I’d take Meg and get out of here.”

“Except now that he knows she’s not under his control anymore, what good is Meg to him? He failed the first time he tried to torture her into submission, and he had over a century to do it.” Cas shrugged. “She is of no use to him in Hell. Only here.”

“Here,” Dean said. “Here where you can go get her.”

Cas shifted and looked away. “Yes. That is most likely his plan.”

Dean dropped the last bite of his burger onto the wrapper and wadded it up. Tossed the bit of paper into the bag. His hands, empty now, dangled from his wrists like wingless birds. He flexed his fingers and resisted the urge to clench them into fists. “He wants Kevin and the tablet. You’re just…a curiosity. Revenge.”

Silence ticked between the three of them, and no amount of amphibian histrionics could fill it.

“So what do we do?” Sam said at last.

“We go in,” said Dean. “We’ve got the knife and Cas and Cas’s angel blade. Salt rounds and holy water and that exorcism you were using back in town. We’ll need to scout the place first, see just how many demons we’re dealing with and where they’ve got Meg, but we go in hard and fast. We get her, we get this guy Remy if he’s still alive, and we get the hell outta Dodge.”

“Crowley more than likely will have taken precautions against my incursion.”

“We can handle any Enochian graffiti, Cas, don’t worry about it.” Dean paused. A crease formed between his eyes as he studied the angel in the flickering light of candles they’d set around the small room. “Cas,” he said.

“Yes, Dean?”

He glanced at Sam, and his brother’s eyebrows flicked up in silent confirmation. “I need to know you’re gonna be with us on this. When we went after Alfie, you flipped. I get it now, because of the Naomi thing, but that little magic bag is gonna keep you in the fight this time, right?”

Cas hesitated. He wanted to tell them the truth, but he didn’t want to make them worry. There was nothing anyone could do if Naomi decided to intercede, so why add to their burdens? “I’ll be fine, Dean. The problem before was triggered by the particular brand of torture Samandriel was being subjected to. It was…similar…to what Naomi did to me. This situation will be different.”

Dean and Sam shared a brief wordless conversation, and Cas let his mind wander. He rarely understood their grimaces and brow-crinkles, and he had no idea how they spoke to each other so fluently without saying a single word. Perhaps they used some form of psychic communication that he wasn’t—

Cas surged to his feet, body tense and head raised like a hound catching a scent. Sam and Dean rose more slowly, guns at the ready.

“Cas, what’s up? Demons?”

He held out a hand. “Just one.” A whisper of wings and he was gone.

“Oh, fuck me!” Dean said. “Where the hell did he go now?”

* * *

Turned out she did know how to swim, but not very well. Her boots were heavy and annoying, so she kicked them off. It sucked, and she’d miss them, but it was better than sinking. She had to get rid of her leather jacket, too, and that was almost a physical pain. She considered stripping out of her jeans, but it was too ridiculous to swim through a fucking swamp in your damn underpants, so she left them on, drag be damned.

She considered hitting land several times, but instinct kept her going. She slithered through the water like a snake, her skin silvered by the faint moonlight. She had no idea how long she’d been swimming or how long she needed to swim. Time was immaterial. All that mattered was the fading demon presence at her back and the growing sense of  _angel_  ahead of her.

Around a slight bend. An alligator opened its jaws and hissed at her, so she hissed back. It sank below the surface, but she steered clear anyway (honestly, she wasn’t in the mood). The bayou narrowed into little more than a wide creek, and she knew she was close. She stroked closer to the shore and snagged a low-hanging branch and dragged herself up and out of the hated water.

Meg clung to the branch for a long time, still and quiet and listening. The night sounds of the swamp gradually resumed around her, and once things seemed more or less normal, she crawled along the branch and shimmied down the tree’s thick trunk.

One careful, cautious step away from the tree, and Cas appeared in front of her. She clapped both hands over her mouth to muffle a ridiculous shriek, and then smacked him on the chest. “What the  _fuck_ , Clarence?” she hissed. “You can’t just materialize in front of someone like that. I’m on the  _run_  here, and this is a fucking  _swamp_.”

He blinked, nonplussed. “I apologize. I thought it would be worse to startle you in the water.”

She shuddered at the thought. “Yeah. Way worse.”

“Are you cold? You’re quite wet.”

“I’m a demon, featherbrain. I’m not affected by the cold.”

His mouth twitched, and a moment later he had his coat off and wrapped around her shoulders. She scowled. He glowered. She rolled her eyes and stuck her arms through the sleeves. “Fine. Quit pouting at me about it.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and when she thought he wasn’t looking she buried her nose in the collar and took a long breath.

“Where are the Hardy boys?” she said next.

“Ah.” His brow furrowed. “We have a cabin down the creek a bit. Dean took the standard demon proofing measures, but we could get you inside without much trouble.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

His head tilted. “What would you suggest?”

“Dean isn’t exactly my biggest fan, Clarence. You really think he’s gonna want to stick his neck out for me?”

“Dean and I have discussed this issue at length. He’s agreed to help you, for my sake.” His eyes shifted. “It would be better if you didn’t antagonize him.”

She let out a throaty chuckle. “Sugar, I  _live_  to antagonize Dean Winchester. It’s my  _raison d’être_. Who would I be without it?”

“You would be you,” he said, quietly, “but with less pretense.” He held out his hand, and she twined her fingers through his. For once she had nothing to say, no witty retort or sarcastic rejoinder, and she felt strangely vulnerable, stripped bare by his serene insight.

Fucking angels.

“Cas,” she said and tugged his hand. He turned to her, a question in the cant of his head. “How’s Sam? Did he…? The demons. There were a fuck ton demons.”

He smiled and pulled her to him. Tucked her wet hair behind her ear and stroked his fingers down her cheek. She looked up at him, confused and surprised, but before she could say anything further, he melded his mouth to hers. She tasted loamy and salty and scared, and beneath that, he savored the familiar flavors of cinnamon and peaches, spice and sweetness like an intoxicating war on his tongue.

He slid his hands beneath his coat to press against her back, and she clung to him in a way she never had before. The kiss started out gentle, but her need (and his, he admitted) turned it hot and hungry. Her tongue plundered his mouth. His teeth nipped at her lip. She caught his moan and echoed it with one of her own. He pulled her tight against him and she tangled her fingers in his hair.

They were both breathless when the kiss finally broke. She blinked up at him with dazed eyes. “What the hell was that for?”

Cas shook his head a little. “I was concerned.”

“About what? My tonsils?”

He made an impatient gesture. “About  _you_ , Meg. About what Crowley might do to you. That I might not get to you in time.”

“Hum. Well, besides smelling like a fucking swamp, I’m fine. Crowley should be more careful about who he picks to guard me.”

“You can tell the story later, when we get back to Dean and Sam.” His eyes clouded. “We were almost too late,” he said. “He said you gave him holy water and distracted the demons for a short time. That was probably enough to save his life, Meg. A few seconds longer and I would not have been able to bring him back.”

She studied him through shrewd and knowing eyes. “What did you do, Clarence?”

He huffed out a sigh. “Why must you always assume—”

“Because you’re always doing something stupid! What was it this time? What sort of crazy shit did you pull to save big baby Winchester’s life?”

He squirmed and tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him. Finally he met her piercing gaze and grimaced. “There’s something I should tell you.”

“No shit. I’m listening.”

He told her an abbreviated version of what he’d learned about Naomi, Remy’s gift of the mojo bag, and what had happened to it after he’d healed Sam. He didn’t tell her Naomi had ordered him to prevent Crowley’s death. Meg pushed away from him to pace, her bare feet soundless on the tall grass. She was silent for so long when he finished that he began to worry. “Meg—?”

She threw up a hand. “Don’t. What the fuck, Castiel? An angel in your head? You’re like all,  _Oh, look at me, I’ve got blue eyes so I must be Frank Sinatra in_ The Manchurian Candidate!”

“Dean made the same reference.”

She made a face. “Clever son of a bitch,” she muttered. “Did you tell the rest of the Rat Pack about the bag burning up?”

“No. I didn’t want to worry them.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her forehead and tried to focus her scattered thoughts. Stopped pacing and turned to him with an inscrutable expression. “She doesn’t have the right. If she wants to talk to you, she can get her feathered ass down here and talk to your face.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I’ll do to her exactly what I did to our friend Hester.”

“Meg,” he said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but Naomi is an angel. My sister. Please. I don’t want any more angelic blood spilled in my name. The killing has to stop.”

“Clarence, you’re sweet. Sweet as cotton candy and innocent as a unicorn. Do you think  _Naomi_  gives a shit about that? She would kill you in a second if you got in her way. Look what she made you do to Samandriel.”

“No, Meg,” he said, a stern and earnest plea. “Whatever she is, whatever she’s done, she’s  _still_  my sister.”

She looked away. Her jaw tensed, and he braced himself for a fight. Instead she turned back. Reached up and touched his cheek, a brief whisper of her fingers against his skin. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it, then fine.” Her eyes hardened, and he saw a flash of the demon within. “But, Castiel? If it comes down to you or her, there’s no fucking contest. Got it?”

He studied her a moment, admiring the fierce determination she wore like a mantle, and finally gave a brief nod. “I would expect nothing less.” Amusement flickered in the depths of his midnight eyes like the distant twinkle of stars. He offered her his hand again and she accepted.

A brief rustle of wings, and they were gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas meets an old friend and then, later, gets a terrible shock.

**And I could tell you you're all I've ever wanted, dear.**  
 **I could utter every word you'd ever hope to hear.**  
 **I shudder when I think I might not be here forever, forever, forever.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "All I've Ever Wanted"

When Cas reappeared Dean didn’t even bother to look up from the salt rounds he was packing. Sam carried on cleaning his other  _other_  gun. Cas stood there a moment, nonplussed, as neither Winchester acknowledged his presence. He cleared his throat. Dean pressed a shotgun shell together and cut his eyes over.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re back.”

“Yes,” said Cas. “I am.”

“Had an urgent errand, didja?”

“I’m sorry?” Cas said, blinking.

Dean’s face creased into one of those tight not-real smiles that left his eyes empty and cold. “Just wondering. Because, ya know, we’re here because of you.  _Your_  demon girlfriend.  _Your_  crusade. We’re putting ourselves on the line for  _you_ , Cas. Do you understand what that means?”

His eyes narrowed and his head tilted. “I’m grateful, Dean—”

“No, Cas. Grateful’s only half of it.” He dropped a cloth over the scatter of rock salt and empty shells and, brushing his hands against his jeans, rose to his feet. He took a step closer, and Sam set the gun down to keep an eye on them both. “If you want us here, Cas,  _you_  have to be here. If we’re gonna go after Meg and Crowley, then you’ve gotta be with us. I mean  _with_  us. We’re family, Cas. That’s why we’re doing this for you. Because you’re family. Family doesn’t flit off whenever the mood strikes. You get that?”

He looked away. It wasn’t the first time Dean had called him family, but the first time…didn’t bear remembering. It had hardly been Castiel’s finest hour. Dean and Sam and Bobby were all he knew of family, but just that limited experience had taught him the truth of Dean’s words. He rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I’m unused to…being held accountable. I sensed a demon nearby, and I simply reacted.”

“A demon?” Sam said. “Did you kill it?”

“I’m being unclear. I sensed  _Meg_  nearby.”

The brothers exchanged a sharp glance. “Meg?” Dean said. “Where? Is Crowley with her?”

Cas waved a hand. “She’s just outside. She escaped from Crowley. I would like to bring her in, but I didn’t want to disable the traps without speaking to you both first.”

“She escaped?” Dean said. “She just…walked out? On Crowley?” He turned away. Ran a hand over his mouth. Spun back. “ _Really_ , Cas? Come on!”

Sam stood and held out an arm to stop his brother before he could get really wound up. “Hang on, Dean. Let’s hear Meg’s side of the story before we lose it. Cas, I’ll go with you. We’ll break the traps to let her in, and I’ll reset them behind her. Does that work?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, Sam.” He cast Dean a puzzled glower, and his only response was a lazy shrug.

Sam grabbed a can of spray paint and a thing of salt and followed Cas out back. Dean muttered a curse and returned to making shotgun shells. He got through two before he gave up in disgust. He felt turned around upside down inside out. He had no idea what was what anymore. He trusted Cas like a brother, which was ironic considering how he sometimes felt about his  _actual_  brother. Not that he’d had any reason to mistrust Sam lately, even though he hadn’t looked for him when he’d been in Purgatory.

Whatever. He couldn’t blame the kid for wanting a normal life. Hadn’t he wanted the same thing before? He had learned the hard way it wasn’t possible, and he guessed Sam had, too. He wished things could’ve been different for Sam. He wished he could’ve lived happily ever after with that Amelia chick. Have a dog and a house and pop out giant, big-haired babies. But life was fucking unfair, and a Hunter’s life was more unfair than most.

All of that was beside the point. It wasn’t like Cas was gonna start playing house with  _Meg_. She was a demon. He was an angel. What the fuck? It just…didn’t make sense.

Except it did, in a weird, twisted sort of way. Meg was Cas’ dark side. Ruby had been Sam’s dark side. And what about his, Dean’s, dark side? Why had he never fallen for a demon? He snorted and tucked the last of the ammunition away. That was easy: Dean Winchester was his own dark side, and he always had been. He didn’t need a demon to get him there.

He didn’t think Meg was gonna Ruby them. He’d never trusted Ruby, and while he definitely didn’t trust Meg, the vibe was different. She was…different. He couldn’t give it a name, he just knew it, the same way you know you like pie more than cake or red more than blue. Some things just  _are_.

He was stowing the last of the shotguns when Sam and Cas came back. Meg trailed behind them, and Dean had to smother a laugh at the sight. She looked like a drowned rat, barefoot and simmering with fury. “Jesus,” he said. “You stink.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted a brow. “You don’t exactly smell like the perfume counter at Macy’s, sugarplum. I just took a nice long swim in a swamp. What’s your excuse?”

He grinned. “Man musk. I’m very manly.”

She let out a gasping chuckle and rolled her eyes. “Keep dreaming, bowlegs.” Her head pivoted. “Hey, big boy. You got any extra shirts around here?”

Sam boggled. “Shirts?”

“Yes. Articles of clothing that you wear on your upper torso. In your case, probably plaid.” She made a face. “I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Meg, why do you need access to Sam’s clothing?”

“I don’t think any of my shirts are really going to  _fit_  you, Meg.”

“Christ. Will you let me worry about that? Shirt. Now.”

His face creased in consternation, but he dug through his bag and produced a blue, red, and white plaid shirt. She took it like it might bite, and not in the good way. “Be right back,” she said with a tight smile.

The three stood in an uncomfortable circle. Dean had his face buried in his hand. Sam was trying very hard not to squirm. Cas just looked befuddled.

She reappeared in the doorway wearing Sam’s shirt cinched at the waist with her belt. Her legs were bare, and she had a bundle of clothes under one arm. She tossed it aside with a wrinkled nose. “I swear, if I ever smell swamp again it’ll be too soon.” She grabbed a handful of her hair and sniffed. “Ugh. Fuck this.”

“Meg,” Cas said, a note of disapproval shimmering in his voice, “I gave you my coat.”

“Uh huh. And I gave it back. I can’t run around tripping over your coat all night, Clarence. Thanks but no thanks. This works better.”

“Where are your shoes?” Dean said.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Bottom of the bayou. Why? You worried about my tootsies? Don’t. I’d walk over broken glass to get a chance at Crowley, boots or no boots.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We were gonna go after Crowley to get you out. Now that you’re here, maybe we should just call it a day. Blow this pop stand and go for a beer.”

Her eyes flashed black, there and gone so fast he didn’t even have time to reach for the knife. “No way. That wasn’t our deal.”

“Perhaps he’s right, Meg,” Cas said. “It was always a long shot, and now he’ll be even more on his guard. You said yourself he’s not to be underestimated.”

Her expression transformed. She swallowed and raked her tangled hair back with both hands. “No. If you guys aren’t in, I’ll do it myself. But as long as Crowley’s alive, I’m not safe. And…look, he’s planning something. I have no clue what, but he’s got about a bajillion demons in town, and they’re all plotty and schemey and fuckin’ weird. It’s action right up your alley, boys, trust me.”

“Look, Meg, we hate Crowley as much as you do.” Sam’s brows flickered. “Okay, maybe not  _quite_  as much, considering a century of torture, but we have plenty of reason to want him dead. He’s  _always_  up to something. How is this different?”

She gritted her teeth and spun to face Cas. “He has Remy. He’ll kill him if we don’t do something, and he will not be allowed to go gently into that good night. It’ll be bloody and brutal and fucking awful. He already killed Maya and threw her  _head_  at us.”

Sam shifted his weight. He suddenly looked queasy. “Yeah, there was that.”

“Remy’s the hoodoo guy who helped you two, right?” Dean said.

“That’s right. He’s also kind of a friend.” She flicked her fingers impatiently at Dean’s huff of disbelief. “Fuck you. An ally, anyway. Whatever he is, he doesn’t deserve the shit Crowley has in store for him.”

“Remy helped Meg to repay a debt he felt he owed her, but he had no reason to help me,” Cas said. “Now I am in his debt.”

“Probably why he did it,” Dean said under his breath.

“Regardless,” said Cas, “I owe him.”

“Crowley could do some serious damage with a powerful hoodoo man on his side,” Sam said.

“He asked Remy to summon the blue-lipped warlocks, and Remy said no,” Meg said. “Not  _I can’t,_ just  _no._ Of course, he wasn’t under torture at the time.”

“Okay,” Dean said, holding up a hand to stop her. “Looks like the plan’s back on.” He fixed Meg with a glare. “Tell us everything you know.”

She smirked. “Relax, Napoleon, I got this. Hand me that spray paint.”

Sam hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna draw you a map, moron. Why the fuck do you think?”

His mouth quirked and he tossed the can to her. She gave it a few hard shakes. “Gather ‘round, boys. You’re gonna want to take notes.”

\----

Remy Abellard was old. Oh, not the way angels or demons or continents reckoned these things, but by human standards? Yep, he had a year or two on the average. He’d lived a long time. Long life can do several things to a man, and only a few of them are good. It can make you hard and cynical and angry…or you can use those years to find the core of yourself. The truth.

Remy always liked to think he’d done the latter. He’d known his share of love and laughter and heartbreak and pain. He remembered the day his daughter was born, the first time he’d held her and looked down into her tiny face. He remembered Maya’s voice, singing as she cooked, the good smells and sweet sounds filling his house. He remembered a battlefield that had almost killed him, another that had killed his brother, another, far more recent, that had taken his son.

He’d suffered at the hands of this demon. Crowley. Fergus. He’d bled and screamed and hurt, but he hadn’t given in. The demon’s frustration mounted, and Remy would laugh if he had the breath for it. At least he’d done good here, at the end. He’d helped that demon girl, and as ironic as it seemed, that’d been the right thing to do. He’d resisted all of this squawking fool’s attempts to get the summoning from him.

He’d lived a good long life, and maybe now it was time to rest.

Death was an old acquaintance. He knew about her floppy hat collection and her weakness for fast food. He knew sometimes she paraded around looking like a gaunt middle-aged man, because occasionally it’s just easier to live up to their expectations. She stood at his elbow now, her face an exquisite mask of compassion. Her gentle black eyes were steady on his, and he smiled at her.

She smiled back, so sweetly. Held out her hand. “It’s time, Remy.”

“Yeah,  _cher_ ,” he said. “Fuck this demon sumbitch.”

“Don’t you worry about him, old friend. They all meet me in the end.”

Comforted, reassured,  _ready_ , Remy twined his fingers through hers. He heard the sound of great wings, and then all went still.

* * *

Crowley smirked in triumph. After hours of nothing, the old man was finally talking. He pulled his knife back and leaned closer. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“…demon sumbitch,” he murmured.

He pulled back like he’d been struck, his face a mask of fury. “You listen to me, you stubborn fuck. Do you think this is a  _game_? We’re just getting started. I can do things to you…”

He let the thought evaporate. Leaned in again. Twisted away and cast the knife to the ground in exasperated disgust. “Fuck the  _audacity_  of these fucking humans!” Dying. Now. When they were so fucking  _close_! He could practically taste the angel tablet. Feel it beneath his fingers.

He waved away a demon who stepped forward to help and stood alone and glowering. Now what? He ground his teeth in frustration. His conjuror was dead. There were others, of course, but Remy Abellard was the best. Everyone knew that. Look at what he’d done for Meg. A man who could do the impossible…exactly as Crowley had been hoping he would.

And now he was fucking dead like a useless fucking moron and Crowley was left with nothing. No tablet. No conjuror. No prophet. No Meg.  _Nothing_.

He grimaced and worked the kink out of his neck with a quick jerk of his head. No matter. He still had an ace up his sleeve. He always did. He hadn’t clawed his way up from “just another demon” to the  _King_  of motherfucking  _Hell_  without knowing how to play the game.

Crowley took a deep breath. He untied the bloody apron and folded it neatly. Set it aside with a moue of distaste. Straightened his cuffs and adjusted his tie. He called the demon back and waved toward Remy’s cooling body. “Find a place for this. Make sure our little Meggie can see it when she comes for him.” He paused. “Get me a bit of blood first, though. I’ll need it.”

He had an angel to summon.

* * *

They appeared just down the creek from Remy’s house. Meg had suggested—and Dean had reluctantly agreed—an attack from the rear. He thought Crowley might have beefed up security since Meg’s escape, but she shrugged it off. Even if he had, she argued, demons’ natural aversion to water would keep them away. It would buy them some time and a cover.

Cas went invisible and got as close as he could before the wards stopped him. Surprisingly it seemed like Crowley had limited most of his anti-angel protection to the house. The yard itself was largely open to him. Demons roamed everywhere. He circled around to the front and saw what Meg had described: Crowley and Remy, and the latter was not looking well.

He paused to observe, and something strange rippled through him. He sensed a great power nearby, something ancient and…indifferent. He turned his head. A young woman appeared at his elbow and smiled up at him. She wore a black tank top, ripped black jean shorts, and torn black fishnet tights. Her hair was a black tangle, her skin pale, her makeup dramatic. He knew her. Everyone knew her.

No one remembered her, until the end.

“Hello, Death,” he said, struggling a bit to keep his voice even.

“Hiya, Cas. How’re things?”

“I am…well.”

“Hum. Whatever you say, buddy.” She rocked back on her heels and followed his eyes to the scene unfolding between Remy and Crowley. “That isn’t gonna end well.”

“Are you here for him, then?”

She paused. “He’s a friend. It’s the least I could do.”

Cas’ brow furrowed. “Meg will be displeased.”

She glanced at him, compassion darkening her eyes. “He knew I was coming. He told her. It’s why she stayed. It’s why she’s fighting so hard. You know that, Cas.”

He looked down at her. The shadow of wings—so different from his own, a great and terrible power in their own right—danced behind her, and he blinked. “Last time we met—”

She waved a hand. “Forget it. I was grumpy, you weren’t yourself. It happens.” She cast him a sideways smile. “I did warn you about the souls, though, didn’t I?”

“Yes. I should have listened.”

“It’s all right. My brother never listens to me, either. Look at the messes it’s gotten him into.” Her gaze was drawn to Remy again. Her face fell into grave lines. “It’s time.”

She started away, but he reached for her. His fingers brushed her shoulder, and she turned back. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. She smiled. Touched his cheek. “I come for everyone in the end, Castiel,” she said. “And everyone gets the same thing. They get a lifetime.”

He watched her go with a deep frown of consternation. She stopped next to Remy, and the look on his face when he saw her was one of perfect peace. Cas watched, struggling with emotions he had no names for, until she disappeared in a sweep of invisible wings.

What happened next left him cold through and through, vessel and celestial being, and when he reappeared in front of the others, Dean had to catch him as he staggered and nearly crumpled to the ground.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally (finally) comes to terms with Meg, and Crowley and Naomi sit down for tea.

**But little fucks like us, we were always receiving instruction.**  
 **You could burn off clothes, you could wash out ink and dye,**  
 **But you can't look me in the eye and say you don't feel like a little destruction.**  
 **And the kids are lined up on the wall, and they're ready to die.**  
 **And the kids are lined up on the wall, and they're ready to die.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Kids Are Ready to Die"

“Clarence, for fuck’s sake, pull yourself together. You’re embarrassing me,” Meg said, the glib words belied by her worried tone.

Dean gripped him around the middle as he stumbled drunkenly, his face a mask of shock. “Come on, buddy,” Dean said. “Take a breath. Just take a breath and tell us what happened.”

He stared with wide, skeptical eyes, but after a moment he complied, taking great gulps of air in through his mouth. Finally he stopped shaking. He closed his eyes as though to compose himself, and, with a nod of thanks to Dean, he stood on his own and shrugged his shoulders to settle his coat more comfortably on his angular frame.

“Better now?” Meg said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“Yes,” Cas said. His eyes warmed as they met hers. “I apologize.”

“Hey, man, it’s cool,” Dean said. “We all gotta lose our shit sometime.”

“Cas, what happened?” Sam said. “Were you attacked or something?”

“No, nothing like that. My presence was undetected.”

The other three exchanged uneasy glances. “Okay, then…?” Meg said. “Spill it, feathers. What had your wings in such a twist?”

His gaze settled on Meg, and she shifted uncomfortably. Crossed her arms over her chest. She looked small and vulnerable in nothing but Sam’s shirt, her tiny frame swallowed in a sea of plaid. Dean wished they could’ve gotten her some shoes. It didn’t seem right to go into a fight barefoot, demon or not.

“What the fuck are all of you staring at?” she demanded. “I know I’m not wearing a bra, but try to control your lust, boys. We’ve got a King of Hell to kill. Eyes on the prize, not my tits.”

And the moment was broken, at least for Dean. He rolled his eyes and looked away, out over the still water of the bayou. Sam’s brow creased and his mouth quirked. Only Cas’ expression stayed steady.

“Meg, I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged a shoulder, struggling hard for nonchalance. “S’cool, Clarence. You get a pass on checkin’ me out.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t referring—though I do wish—that is—” He stopped and cleared his throat, and she smothered a laugh as Dean and Sam cringed in unison. He glared at them impatiently. “Please, Meg, I’m trying to tell you something.”

She gritted her teeth and smiled, hard and tight. “Then spit it out, sugarplum.”

“It’s Remy,” he said. He took a step closer and cupped her face in his hand. “I’m sorry.” His brow creased as he studied her face. “It’s small comfort, I know, but I believe he was at peace at the end.”

She absorbed it with a gulp of breath and tense, dancing jaw muscles. “We were too slow. Too fucking slow.”

“Meg—”

“Don’t!” She knocked his hand away and spun. “Fuck this. Fuck Crowley. Remy didn’t deserve his shit.”

“Nobody does,” Sam said after a moment. “That’s why we’re gonna keep it together and stick to the plan.”

“Right, Meg?” Dean said, quietly.

She took a deep breath of the heavy, marshy air and let it out slowly. Scrubbed fiercely at her face with the back of her hand. “Fuck,” she muttered. She turned back and glared hard at Dean. “He was my friend, Dean Winchester, I don’t give a flying fuck what you say. Demons can have friends, okay? We  _can_. And Remy Abellard was mine. And now he’s dead. I’m going to rip so many new holes in Crowley he’ll fucking  _whistle_.”

He held up his hands. “Truce, Meg. You and me, okay? We’re in this for the same thing, and I’m sorry about your friend. So truce.”

She stood furious and prickly, like a an angry cat, for a few more seconds, but finally she gave in with a jerky nod. “Truce. At least until Crowley’s in the ground. Then we can go back to hating each other.”

Dean cast a glance at Cas. “Yeah,” he said, wearily. “Awesome.”

“There’s more,” Cas said once the matter seemed to be settled. “Crowley used Remy’s blood to summon someone.” He swallowed hard and his face took on a shadow of the same panic it had shown when he’d first zapped back to them.

“Okay,” Sam said, drawing the syllables out. “What kind of someone? Someone we know?”

“It wasn’t one of those demon knight guys was it, because we tangled with that Abaddon dude, and he was a piece of work,” Dean said. He smirked. “Nice meatsuit, though.”

Meg made a face. “You’re disgusting.”

“Guys!” Sam said. “Enough! Truce, remember? Jesus, it’s been five fucking seconds!” He glared them into shamefaced quiet and turned back to Cas. “Tell us what you saw, Cas. We’re listening.”

“It was Naomi,” he said in a rush. “Crowley summoned Naomi.”

Silence.

“Naomi the angel from your head Naomi?” Meg finally said.

“I only know one Naomi,” Cas replied.

“Why the hell would Crowley be summoning an angel? And why, of all angels, the Angela Lansbury bitch from your skull?” Dean said.

“I don’t know.”

Meg waved a hand. “Better question. How did she react? Did she whip it out and try to stab Crowley in his stupid smug face, or did she jump his bones?”

The intensely uncomfortable expression on Cas’ face told them all they need to know. Dean and Meg both cursed, long and low, while Sam let out a soft groan of frustration.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Naomi’s working with  _Crowley_? She’s an angel! I know she’s not our favorite angel, but she’s still an angel.”

“C’mon, little brother. Didn’t the Apocalypse teach you that there’s no end to angelic dickery?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Cas said. He dipped his hands into his pockets and pulled them out again. “Last time she summoned me, Naomi ordered me to not kill Crowley. She said doing so would create a power vacuum in Hell, and Heaven would prefer for things to remain as they are.”

“You have the bag, though,” Dean said. “You can fight her orders.”

“ _Had_ ,” Meg bit out. “He  _had_  the bag.”

“Wait, what?” Sam said.

Cas sighed and looked away. “The mojo bag was destroyed when I healed you, Sam. I used too much power and it…overloaded.”

Another lull, this one fraught with burning tension.

“We’re here to kill Crowley. You, our most powerful weapon, have some sort of posthypnotic suggestion to keep him alive. Your one defense against that is gone. Were you planning to tell us all of this, Cas, or just let us go in blind?” Dean said.

“I thought even if we somehow couldn’t kill Crowley, at least we could rescue Remy. If it came to it, I would remove myself from the situation.”

“Without the bag, how would you even remember if you talked to her?” Sam said.

“I hoped there would be lingering effects.”

“You  _thought_. You  _hoped_. Jesus, Cas! Maybe next time try  _wishing_. I hear that works like a charm!” Dean cried.

“Would you keep your voice down?” Meg hissed. “There’re about sixty demons on the other side of those bushes just dying to rip our throats out. Everybody shut the fuck up and breathe for a second.”

She took her own advice and paced a few steps back and forth, her bare feet silent on the thick grass. “Okay. This fucking sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. We need to find out what Crowley and Cas’ puppet master are up to. Whatever it is, I seriously doubt it’s good for any of us. Or, like…the human race.”

“No,” Dean said. “Fuck no. I’m callin’ it. I was all for rescuing a human and killing Crowley, but now there’s some mysterious cloak and dagger angel involved, and dogs and cats living together mass hysteria type shit. We don’t need the hassle.”

Sam’s face creased. He rested his hands on his hips and stared up at the starlit sky. “I think Meg’s right, Dean.”

“Christ, Sammy, come on.”

“No, really. Remember what happened last time Crowley worked with an angel?” He tilted his head in Cas’ direction, and the angel in question shifted his weight guiltily. “It nearly destroyed the planet.”

Dean closed his eyes. Opened them again. Shook his head in exhausted resignation. “So what do we do? Just go in with guns blazing?”

Meg cleared her throat, and three sets of eyes pivoted her way. She offered a smile that looked more like a grimace. “I have an idea. It fucking sucks, but it’s…an idea.”

“Your ideas always suck, starting with that time you tried to kill us with those fuckin’ daevas,” Dean said.

“Truce!” said Sam.

She ignored Dean and crossed her arms over her chest. “Crowley wants Cas. I bet Naomi wouldn’t mind getting her mitts on his feathered ass, either. So…let’s give them want they want.”

“You want me to turn myself over to Crowley and Naomi?”

Her mouth quirked. “I’ll do you one better. I want to  _take_  you to Crowley and Naomi.”

“Fuck that,” Dean said. “If you think we’re gonna trust you—”

“For fuck’s sake, Dean! You’re like a broken fucking record. I get it. You don’t trust me. I attacked you with daevas and possessed your baby brother and tried to get a demon to kill Bobby and sic’d Hellhounds on you and your friends. All of that was a long time ago, and I’m a different person now. Don’t you get that? I’m a demon and I’ll always be a demon, but I’m not the  _same_  demon. I’m not Ruby. I’m not Crowley. I’m not Azazel or Alastair. All I’m asking for is a fucking chance.”

She took a step closer, and when he tried to lean away, she invaded his space—not to threaten, just to…get close. “You were on that rack, Dean. You held that knife in your hands. You of all people should understand.”

He cut his eyes toward Sam and Cas. They stood watching with interest but no apparent intention of interfering. He swallowed hard. For someone so small, she really did manage to take up a damn lot of room. He’d been trying so fucking hard to hate her, to mistrust her and loathe her, and sometimes it wasn’t even that hard. Other times, though, he felt himself sliding into a sort of kinship with her, a kinship she was calling upon now.

Yeah, he’d been on that rack. Alastair’s rack. He’d held the knife. He knew its power and its allure. She’d existed for…who even knew how long. She was a pureblood demon, and Hell was all she had ever known. Now here she was, trapped on Earth, forced to mingle among humans and, incongruously, angels.

Kinda like Cas in reverse. If humanity could rub off on an angel, why not a demon, too? Angels were cold-ass robots, emotionless and humorless and junkless, but somehow over his time “down here,” Cas had become something like a real boy. It had been painful and frightening and he’d made horrible mistakes along the way, but Dean had forgiven them. He’d forgiven them all.

They’d been betrayed by demons time and again…but also by angels. By humans. What made Meg any better or worse than anyone else? She was created evil, and now (she claimed) she was trying to forge a new path for herself. And he was nothing but a dick to her, every second. She deserved some of it, yeah…but maybe not all. And maybe she deserved just a tiny bit of credit. Maybe she’d earned it.

He rolled his eyes. “Fuck it,” he said. “You wanna throw yourself to Crowley? Fine. What’s your plan?”

Meg smiled, a tiny curving of lips, and stepped back. It was the closest she and Dean would probably ever get to true peace between them, she knew. She’d watched his eyes as he’d wrestled with what she’d said and his own, personal demons…and she’d watched him decide to set aside (some of) his old prejudices, partly for his friend’s sake, and partly just because he decided it was time.

Dean Winchester played dumb, but there was a thinker inside there somewhere.

“Right,” she said. “Pretty simple. You boys find a nice juicy spot to sit and wait so we can signal you if we need you. Wing nut and me go in and throw ourselves on Crowley’s tender mercies.”

Cas stirred. “Meg, while I applaud your creative thinking, I’m not sure this plan is strategically sound. What if Crowley kills you?”

“What if Crowley kills  _you_?” Dean said to Cas.

Meg dismissed their concerns with a flick of her fingers. “Don’t worry about me, boys. I can take anything Crowley can dish out.” She forestalled any further protest with a sharp gesture. “Anyone have a better idea? I think we’ve decided running isn’t an option.”

There was some general hemming and hawing and feet shuffling, but finally they gave in. “Yeah, okay,” sad Sam. “Let’s do it.”

“Great. Your goal is get inside the house. It’ll be free of demons and angels since Remy had it washed down in salt and Crowley’s boys have been painting it with Enochian jibber jabber. If Remy and Maya were both caught outside, it means Remy wasn’t protecting  _himself_  with all that hoodoo. Find out what he was hoarding.”

“What’ll you two be doing?” Dean said.

“Trying not to get ourselves killed, genius. What do you think?”

* * *

“Naomi—is that really what you’re calling yourself these days?”

She made an impatient gesture, a graceful flutter of fingers, and he smiled.

“Yes, of course, Naomi. I’m so glad you could join me. Louisiana is truly delightful this time of year, isn’t it?”

“It’s a swamp any time of year, Fergus. Could you please explain what made you think you had any right to  _summon_  me? I am not at your beck and call. I have  _responsibilities_  in Heaven. Things are at a point—”

“Yes, love, I’m well aware of what  _point_  we’re at. That’s  _why_  I summoned you. Please, have a seat. Tea?” He waved toward a small table set with a silver tea service and a china plate of jammy dodgers, but she shook her head. She also ignored the chair he offered.

“Just get on with it,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t have time for pleasantries.”

“Humm,” he said, a surprisingly matronish sound of disapproval, as he poured a cup of tea. “I hear that so often these days. You know, I think the world would be a much happier place if everyone made a bit more time for the small things. Pleasantries, as you say.”

She lifted a brow. “If the world were a happier place, you would do much less business. Who needs to make a deal when they already have what they want?”

“Touché,” he said with a brief smile. He added two lumps of sugar and a dollop of cream to his cup and took a contemplative sip. Set the cup back in its saucer and pinned her with shrewd olive eyes. “My dear, speaking of deals…”

“We never made any deals, Fergus. No contracts. No kisses.”

He smirked. “Well…not about  _that_ , anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “You said if you found the angel tablet you would turn it over to my agent. I made you the same promise about the other half of the demon tablet. Instead you summon me to the middle of nowhere and offer me  _tea_. What is going on, Fergus?”

He held out his hands. “Ah, my dear, I’ve hit a slight hitch, and I was hoping we could…deepen our relationship.” He paused. “So to speak.”

The look on her face spoke volumes. He let out a soft sigh and hurried on. “Your agent is Castiel, yes? No need to say anything; I can tell by your expression that he is. My agent was the demon called Meg. You’ve heard of her?”

The muscle near her eye started to twitch.

“I see you have. Darling, perhaps you’d like that tea now?”

She sighed and perched in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. “Black,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied with a wink, “just like your heart.”

“Fergus—”

“Ah, love, forgive me. You know how I enjoy getting a rise out of you. Reminds me of old times. Now. About the Meg and Cas problem.”

“I underestimated his attachment to her. He’s started to resist my orders.”

“Yes. Meg was able to cleanse herself of the worm’s poison, which is what I was hoping for. A bit of a MacGuffin, as they say.”

“What was the point in that, Fergus? It could have killed her, and then you would have to start over from scratch.” She took the cup he offered her and sipped. Snagged a cookie from the plate and nibbled.

“Meg is a predictable creature. I knew she would fight the warlocks’ worm, and I knew she would seek out Remy Abellard. If he couldn’t heal her, then he wasn’t the man I needed.” He shifted in his chair and frowned down at his tea. “Unfortunately I’ve hit a snag, as I said.”

She glanced over at the garden gate. “I assume that’s Remy?”

“Damn fool went and died without telling me anything. His house is warded against your kind and mine. What I need now is a human.”

“A Winchester,” she said after a moment.

He made a low noise. “Winchesters are so prickly.”

“Not if you have the right leverage.”

His mouth curved in an admiring smile. “This is why we always got on so well, my pet. Yes, leverage. That’s the key in any negotiation, isn’t it? Meg will be here soon with your angel, and then we’ll have all the pieces lined up just where they should be.”

“She has no idea you’re in her mind?” Naomi said, a hint of grudging admiration in her voice.

“None,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk. “She thought it was all the warlocks. Such a vain, arrogant little thing she is. I always knew it would be the death of her one day.”

She took a mouthful of tea and stared out over the moonlit garden. “Who would have thought?” she said musingly. “An angel and a demon, defying their fundamental makeup. Each tarnished by the other, yet somehow not diminished. So strange.”

“Who would have thought?” he echoed. “Why,  _you_ , I’d think.”

“That isn’t my area, Fergus. I keep things moving; I don’t set them in motion.” She set her cup back in its saucer and carefully placed them on the table at her elbow. She studied Crowley through knowing blue eyes, deeply enough that even he had to fight the urge to squirm. “You know, Fergus, there is no force in Creation stronger than love. It sounds ridiculous and sentimental, but it’s been proven true more times than even I can count.”

“Ha!” he said, a bark of laughter. “He’s an angel. She’s a demon. It’s a damn good thing neither are capable of love.”

Her mouth tightened in a humorless smile. “Of course. How could I forget?”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas reminds Meg of an old promise before they go to confront Crowley

**Like you're half of something else;  
Just a fraction of yourself.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Half of Something Else"

Sam and Dean were gone, off hiding somewhere before they made an attempt on the house. The sky to the East was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The air was heavy and moist, the grass bowed under the weight of dew. Meg’s feet were cold, and she felt a pang of regret for her lost boots.

“We should go,” she said to Cas, her voice pitched low, her lips near his ear.

He turned his head and his mouth brushed her hair. “Are you sure about this?” he murmured.

“No,” she said with a resigned little laugh. “But it’s the plan, and it’s the only one we’ve got. We can’t keep letting them control us.”

“You escaped Crowley’s control, Meg. The warlocks’ poison is gone.”

Her face fell into troubled lines, and she took his head in her hands. “Listen, Clarence. Some shit might go down…some bad shit, okay? I might do things…” She let the thought die and bit her lip. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to say, and the words kept choking her.

His brow furrowed. He brushed her hair back and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her nose. The full bow of her mouth. “Tell me what’s wrong, Meg.”

“I can’t. I don’t know. Just…” She took a deep breath and swallowed. “There are things I’m never gonna say to you, Castiel. Never.” Her brilliant green eyes were intense, and the gold flecks stood out in the dim light. Beneath them he could see the onyx blaze of her true form, a dark and steady flame. “I hope you know them. I hope you understand.”

He whispered her name then, her true name, the one no one used and hardly anyone knew anymore. His fingers trailed down her neck and left golden tracks of Grace in their wake, like runes branded on her skin. “We’ve been bound, you and I,” he said, rough and deep. “When I saved you from those demons. When you stayed with me in my madness. When you gave me your promise. Whatever happens, I will never lose faith in you, Meg. I will never doubt.”

That made her far more nervous than she cared to admit. She was a demon, for fuck’s sake. Why would this angel, this strange, twisted, beautiful angel, have so much faith in  _her_? What had she done to earn it? Now he looked at her with those dopey blue eyes of his and that earnest, trusting  _face_  and she was just fucking  _wrecked_.

She muttered a curse and gripped his tie. Pulled him to her and kissed him, pouring out everything she’d never be able to say in that hot meld of mouth against mouth. He responded with fervor, strong fingers kneading the back of her neck in the way he knew made her melt. His tongue swirled against hers while his other hand moved down, along the lines of her back to rest just above her belt.

He nipped at her lips and then dropped kisses lower, along her jaw and down her throat to her collarbone. Her head fell back and she tangled her fingers in his sooty hair. He teased open the top few buttons of her shirt and circled his tongue against the white swell of her breast.

“Clarence!” She took a deep breath and tried again. “Cas, baby, I’m not complaining or anything, but maybe now’s not the…the time.…”

“Hush, Meg,” he murmured against her skin. “Now is exactly the time.”

She knew there were a million reasons why he was wrong and she was right, but at the moment none of them seemed all that important. His mouth was doing incredible things to her, and his hands were moving up, stroking beneath the oversize shirt, and her mind was a complete blank.

Still clinging to his tie, she led him to an old spreading oak, its trunk thick and branches low. His smile was wicked, such an incongruous expression on his stoic face, and he pressed her against the rough bark. It snagged the flannel and tickled her sensitive skin and she shivered from the sensation.

He gripped her thighs and she went for his belt. Their mouths crashed together, tongues tangling and teeth biting, and as his hands moved higher, he pulled away to blink at her with wide eyes.

“You aren’t wearing underwear,” he said.

“Is that a problem?” she said, lifting a brow. She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants and ran her nails up his chest.

“Meg. You’re wearing nothing but this shirt. Sam’s shirt. It seems…”

She ran her tongue around his ear. Sucked on the lobe. “What, hot wings? It seems…naughty? Sorry, sugar. My panties were not up to par. Next time you take me to the bayou, bring extra clothes.”

“I was going to say  _inappropriate_.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed him away. Unbuckled her belt and let it fall to the ground. He watched, wide-eyed, as she unbuttoned the shirt all the way down. It hung open just enough to give him tantalizing glimpses of the moon-pale skin beneath. 

“Listen, cloud hopper,” she said in that deep, purring voice she only used when she was trying to get him naked, “we can stand here and argue about my current wardrobe choices, or you can take advantage of them. Which will it be?”

She cocked a hip, and the movement caused the shirt to fall open a bit further. He growled and pounced, pushing her back against the tree as she let out a breathless laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

His hands stroked up and down her body, leaving sparkling trails of Grace as they went. He pressed his thigh between her legs; held her still when she tried to wiggle against him.

“Shhh,” he murmured into her neck. He kissed from her ear down to her shoulder, mouthing and biting and sucking her skin in a way perfectly calculated to drive her insane. She finished the job with his belt and unfastened his pants. Slid her hand inside and found him hot, hard, and ready for her.

He let out a soft moan as her fingers caressed up and down his shaft. As her thumb circled the slick, tight head and smeared the slippery drop of fluid from the tip across the heated skin. He rocked into her grip as she stroked, his eyes closed and his mouth forming nonsense words in Enochian and English. She wiggled her hips, and he could feel her, hot and slick, the wetness soaking through the thin material of his slacks.

“I want to get my  _mouth_  on you,” she said with a dark intensity that, had he a shred less self control, might have made him spill in her hand right then.

“No time,” he growled. “Not now. Later. After.” He gripped her waist and lifted her. His eyes met hers; she thought she’d never seen blue so potent and fathomless; and he said again, “After, Meg. I promise.”

She had a glib comment all ready:  _It’s just a blowjob, featherbrain, no need to get all weird about it_ ; but it died on her lips and all she could do was nod. “I hear you, Clarence. Cas. After.”

He crushed his mouth against hers and dug his fingers into her hips hard enough to bruise. Just when she thought she’d lose her mind from sheer  _need_ , he thrust into her, hard and deep and fast, driving her back into the tree and forcing out a yelp of pleasure that he quickly smothered with another kiss. He went still inside her, his face pressed into the curve of her shoulder, and she ran her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck.

He began to move, short hard thrusts punctuated by long deep ones. She whispered his name, a soft keen of want, and he lifted his head to look into her face. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to. I want to see you.”

He rocked against her and they watched each other, the shifting expressions of pleasure, the soft exhalations, the muffled moans, the whispered words of affection. Her thighs tightened around him, pulling him in closer, and he switched to deep circling thrusts that caused her to bite her lip to keep from crying out and dig her nails harder into his shoulders. He grinned, the face-transforming one, and dipped his head to capture a nipple in his mouth. Her back arched. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip.

She tugged him back up by the hair to capture his mouth with hers, her tongue plundering and her teeth slicing at his bottom lip. He found the same nipple with rough fingers instead, rolling and pinching and teasing. She moaned into his mouth, and he echoed it with one of his own. The way he moved his hips, hard against her when he was deep inside, melted her bones and scrambled her brain, and she felt her control slipping.

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. She was so hot and tight and  _wet_ , but more than that. She was…sweet. Sweet in a way he’d never seen her before, and he had seen her nearly every way possible (or so he thought). Even at their most wanton (and they could be quite wanton), there had always been a thread of something…more. Something deeper. Now, as the long night slid into a soft dawn and he held her against a tree, a moment that should be as wanton as any other felt…

He lost the train of thought as she squeezed him deep inside and his mind blanked out. He looked down into her eyes and she grinned up at him, all wicked, honeyed promise. He held her with strong hands and her thighs gripped him like a vise and he thrust into her, faster and harder, and her head fell back with a heated moan. He bit the side of her neck, his teeth sinking into soft skin, and she arched into him, his name falling from her lips in a blazing litany.

She shuddered around him, squeezing him in an erotic tattoo, and for a moment the world shrank to only her. He growled a word, her true name again, and something about the way he said it sent her over the edge a second time, another orgasm following hard on the heels of the first one. His own control shattered, and he came hard, mouthing mindless Enochian words against her flushed skin and branding her with the flashing heat of his Grace.

They held each other through the trembling aftershocks, and just as they were starting to get their breath back, Cas’ coat started vibrating.

“I hope that’s your phone, otherwise you’ve really been holdin’ out on me, big boy,” she said in a lazy drawl.

He made a face and fished the insistent device from his pocket. “It’s one of Dean’s. He gave it to me before we left the cabin. Something about staying in touch and no excuses.” He hit the button and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

She could hear a voice on the other end, but she couldn’t make out what it was saying. He was still inside her, semi-hard in that delightful Energizer bunny way he had, and she squeezed him. He stared at her, wide-eyed, and she smothered a chuckle.

“Ah, hum? I’m sorry, Dean. I missed that last bit.”

She ran her tongue up the side of his neck, relishing the combination of salty sweat and savory angel. He moved against her, an almost involuntary thrust of his hips, and she let out a low, throaty laugh.

“No, Dean. We were merely waiting for the right time. We’ll be…we’ll be along…” He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and glared at her. “ _Stop_  that!” Raised it again. “We’ll be along shortly. What? I’m an angel, Dean. I don’t get out of breath.” A pause. “Yes, of course. Give us ten…er, make that perhaps twenty…minutes. The light will be better then.”

A few more unintelligible words and then Cas said goodbye and hung up. He fixed her with a heated glare. “You are an impossible creature.”

“Don’t try to pretend it doesn’t get your feathers in a ruffle, hot wings.” She bit his earlobe and sucked. “Now shut up and fuck me, yeah?”

* * *

Dean tossed the phone to Sam with a grimace. “Yep,” he said. “They’re fuckin’.”

Sam’s face creased. “Oh God. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“Happy thoughts, Sammy. Just think happy thoughts.”

* * *

The sunrise bathed the sky in pink, robin’s egg blue, and pale lavender glory, but the show was lost on both demon and angel (who normally did take time to appreciate such things) as they made their final preparations before throwing themselves to Crowley’s tender mercies.

“Just follow my lead, Clarence. Whatever I do or say, go along with it. Whatever happens, don’t let him know…” Her eyes flicked away. Back. “Don’t let him know about us, Castiel. I didn’t nearly melt my fucking brain fighting that worm to have you give it all away with your shitty poker face. Got it?”

He nodded gravely. “I understand, Meg. I won’t let you down.” She started away, but he stopped her with a brief tug on her hand. “Don’t forget your promise to me. No dying.”

Her lips curved, sweet and sharp. “No need to worry your pretty little head about that, angel cakes. My death is nowhere on today’s agenda, believe me.”

“Good,” he said, eyes intense and voice rough. “I would be vexed.”

She read what he was saying loud and clear. “So would I,” she said, quietly.

Somewhere nearby a rooster crowed, and the moment was broken. She let out a nervous laugh and squeezed his hand. “Come on. We’ve put this off long enough.”

He handed her his angel blade and she pressed it against his liver. He offered her a brief, reassuring smile over his shoulder, and she returned it with a slightly shaky effort. Despite her brave words, she had few illusions about their chances. There was something wrong. Something in her skull. Now that the worm’s poison was gone she could sense it, and she knew it was deeper and far more insidious than anything the blue-lipped warlocks had inflicted on her.

She didn’t know who was in control any more. She didn’t know whose idea this ridiculous plan had been. She didn’t trust her “escape” from Crowley’s trap.

She would have said there was only one being in Creation she could put her faith in, but now she knew he had someone in his head, too. So where did that leave them? At odds, again. As always. She couldn’t completely trust him (thanks to Naomi), and there was no way he could completely trust her (even if he didn’t know it), so what did they have?

A promise. One stupid promise made two years ago, a fucking  _lifetime_  ago, that had somehow bound them together more thoroughly than all the kinky/vanilla/steamy/wanton/sweet escapades that had come before it. It had kept her alive for over a century, because despite her boasting, there  _were_  times when she’d wanted to give up. Crowley wasn’t subtle by any means, but sometimes his lack of subtlety was exactly what made him effective…and he had always taken particular delight in calling her his whore.

They had slipped past the first line of demons without any trouble, and they were approaching the inner guard. Cas hesitated as he felt the heightened demon presence, but a slight increase of pressure from the blade kept him moving.

She had promised to stay alive, but it had become so much more than that. He had  _asked_  her to promise because he  _believed_  in her. He believed in her word. No one had ever done that before. No one had ever…

Options. She had options. No one was taking that away from her.

She was a demon. The last of the purebloods. A Queen amongst her kind. Crowley had made a deal for a bigger dick and somehow wound up on top. Fuck that. Fuck him.

A demon appeared in front of them, and Meg flashed him a wolfish smile. “Go find your boss, sugar. Tell him I brought a little present.”

* * *

Naomi was gone and the tea things had been cleared away. The blood had stopped dripping from Remy’s corpse, and Crowley missed the patter of droplets as they hit the flagstone path. Morning was here, and Crowley was restless. Meg should have been here with that damn angel hours ago. He was tired of waiting. Tired of this stupid plane and the nerve-wrangling swamp so close.

He wanted his office. A nice peat fire. A lovely glass of hundred year whisky with a twist. A good book. Maybe he’d take a peek at the new Nora Roberts he had hiding inside the binding of a  _Paradise Lost_  first edition…

A demon appeared at his elbow to interrupt his musings. He glanced over in irritation, and the demon blanched. “They’re here, sir. The demon woman and the angel.”

“Ah!” Crowley’s mood improved several notches, and the demon visibly relaxed. “Show them in. I’m nothing if not hospitable.” The demon scuttled away, and Crowley settled back in his chair. He adjusted his cuffs. Tightened the knot in his tie. Crossed one leg over the other. Changed his mind and planted both feet firmly on the ground and rested his hands on his knees.

A small group of demons led Meg and Castiel into the front garden and dispersed to form a perimeter. Meg smirked at them, defiance writ in every line of her small form despite the fact that she seemed to be clad in nothing more than a very large plaid shirt cinched with a belt. Castiel was stoic as ever, and his expression didn’t alter even when Meg jabbed him with the angel blade she carried.

“Hi there, your worship,” Meg said in a honeyed drawl.

“Meg, my sweet. What in all the levels of Dante’s Hell are you wearing?”

She looked down with a rueful quirk to her mouth. “My clothes got ruined when I took my little swim. I had to make do. I call it  _Moose Couture_. Expect to see it on all the runways this spring.”

“Hhmm,” he said. He gestured one of the demons closer. “Go find her some clothes. Nothing from Wal-Mart, please. I refuse to be surrounded by cheap synthetics. Consider New Orleans.” He dismissed the demon with a flick of his fingers and turned his attention back to Meg and Castiel.

“Why thanks, Crowley. You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it’s not for you. I simply can’t take you seriously in  _plaid_. It’s a natural aversion. Negative associations and all of that.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Now! Down to business. What have you brought me, you delightful little ball of thorns?”

She rolled her eyes. “A golden retriever puppy. An  _angel_ , Crowley, what does it look like? Specifically Thursday’s angel. Castiel. Per your request.”

He rose to his feet and strolled over to them. Looked Cas up and down with a critical eye. “Doesn’t look like he put up much of a fight.”

Meg smirked. “I have my ways.”

He lifted a brow. “I’m sure you do, poppet. But, dearest, Castiel was only part of our arrangement. Where are my prophet and my tablet?”

“I don’t know, Captain Smarmy, but  _he_  does.”

He made a low noise of appreciation and his own angel blade appeared in his hand. He ran the tip down Castiel’s face in an obscene caress. Cas didn’t flinch; his only acknowledgement of Crowley’s presence was to briefly roll his eyes in the demon’s direction.

“I’m sure Castiel will be very forthcoming with his secrets when given the right motivation. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

“Yep. He’s a wordsmith. Babbles like a fucking brook. You just gotta get him started.”

Crowley flipped the angel blade in his hand, an arrogant little gesture, and turned away. “ _Get him started_ ,” he mused. “That’s all about applying the right pressure. Pushing the right buttons.” He turned back and scratched his cheek with the sword’s tip. “Tell me, love, as Alastair’s brightest little pupil, what sort of pressure would you recommend for our feathered friend here?”

She kept her expression neutral, a study in bored disinterest, and her tone light. “He has a soft spot for the Winchesters. It’s a damn shame you don’t have one handy. There’s nothing like the sight of a broken, bleeding Deanikins or Sammy boy to get angel cakes here all in a lather.”

Cas didn’t so much as twitch during this entire exchange, and she spared a moment to admire his fortitude.  _That’s my boy_ , she thought.  _Keep it up and we might actually live through this_.

“I’m sure our little Boy Scouts are halfway out of Louisiana by now, don’t you think?” Crowley said. He tilted his head back and forth. “Or not. Surely they wouldn’t leave their pet angel behind. You, of course, they wouldn’t offer water if you were dying in the desert…but Cas is special. He’s  _good_.”

“Wrong, Crowley. They’d be happy to stop and offer me a nice long sip of  _holy_  water,” she said, letting her natural sarcasm cover up how close that particular dart had come. “I don’t think you’ll need to worry about the Winchesters. The big one’s dead thanks to your demon ambush, and you can just imagine what that’s done to Dean. He’s wandering the swamp like fuckin’ Moses, eatin’ mud pies and talkin’ to snakes. It’s sad, really.”

“Sam Winchester, dead?” His eyes darted around the garden. “Really?”

She prodded Cas with the sword. “Tell him, featherbrain.”

He glared at her over his shoulder. “It’s true. His injuries were beyond my power to heal.”

“Hum.” Crowley’s shoulders slumped and his face fell into glum lines. “I must say I’m disappointed. It seems so…anticlimactic. I thought I’d feel more fulfilled. A dead Winchester, half of life’s problems solved, and all I feel is…empty.”

“Like a toddler who gets more candy every time he asks,” Meg said. “It’s good to know your limits, Crowley. World’s kinda boring without those two jug heads to liven things up, huh?”

Cas cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you going to be torturing me any time soon? If not, would you both mind  _shutting up_  while we wait? Thank you.”

“Ha!” Crowley barked. “Look who took his sass pills today. All right, angel, let’s get on with it. Tell me where Kevin and my tablet are, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”

He gave Crowley the gimlet eye.

“As I suspected. Very well.” He spun in a slow circle as he pondered his options. “No Winchesters. I could do the same brain drilling on you that I did on Samandriel, but that’s time consuming and it might interfere with Naomi’s work. Would hate to get her on a tear just now.” He stopped to face them, and his lips curved in an oily smirk. “I have it. The perfect pressure.”

He dove for Cas, sword raised, and Meg knocked the angel out of the way. She caught his blow with her own blade, and it was only when she saw his face that she realized she’d played right into his hands. He grinned. His eyes flashed crimson. A twist of his wrist and her sword screeched harmlessly off his and his blade plunged halfway into her chest. 


	20. Diversionary Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam have a plan.

**And you know it's begun from the crack of the guns**  
 **And the screams from the mouths of babes.**  
 **And we pray as we're watching the charade.**  
 **Welcome to your wedding day.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "Welcome to Your Wedding Day"

“Okay, we only have enough for one, and if we get it too close, we’ll hit Meg, too.”

“Are you sure—”

“Do not even  _think_  what you’re about to say, Dean.”

“Yeah, all right, okay. I didn’t mean it anyway. What’s the range on this thing?”

“I’m not sure. Five feet? Maybe more.”

“So the front side is definitely out. We can’t guarantee Meg won’t get caught up in the fallout. That means we probably won’t hit Crowley with it, either. I don’t see him walking away from her any time soon.”

“Hitting Crowley with the demon bomb was never really the plan anyway. This is just a diversion so we can get in the house.”

“I know, I know. But it’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Sam added a last sprinkle of powder to the baggie and before he sealed it and tucked it in a jacket pocket. “It’d be amazing,” he agreed. He flipped through the pictures on his phone and zoomed in on the one of Meg’s map. “There’s a high concentration of demons on this side of the house. If we take them out, we can cut through the garden and get in through the back door.”

“Furthest away from the swamp, so that makes sense. I counted twenty over there, and only ten or so wanderin’ around the backyard. We can take out ten between the two of us,” Dean said.

“Hopefully we won’t have to. Diversion, remember?” He sorted through a few more of the pictures. “Here looks good.” He showed the phone to Dean. “I can draw the glyphs there and there. You just have to get the demons closer, as many as you can.”

“No problem, little brother.” He checked his watch. “We should get over there. Meg and Cas are probably with Crowley by now.” He snagged his spare shotgun and started off.

Sam hesitated, and Dean cast a questioning glance over his shoulder. “Were you really kidding?”

“About what?”

“Hitting Meg with the demon bomb, Dean. What do you think?”

He let out an annoyed sigh and turned back to his brother. “Yeah, Sammy, I was really kidding. Look, I’m not all that happy about working with Meg, but Cas seems to like her, and for whatever reason he trusts her. You tell me she’s changed, at least a little bit, and then…I’m not  _blind_. I can see there’s somethin’ different about her.”

He shrugged restlessly and opened the gun to check the rounds inside. Clapped it shut again. “I said I’d give her a chance, and I meant it.”

Sam’s face creased. “Why are you cool with Cas being involved with a demon, but you flipped your shit over Ruby and me?”

Dean smothered a grimace. “That was different. Ruby was…I never got a good vibe off Ruby.” He gestured with the sawed off as he spoke. “I’m not saying I’m sensin’ rainbows and puppy dogs from Meg, but she was right about one thing: with her, what you see is what you get. If she wanted to fuck us, she’d do it straight up, to our faces. Fuck us  _up_ , not  _over_. Like she said.”

“Huh,” Sam said. “You remember what she said last year before we made that run on SucroCorp? You know, that whole thing about finding a cause?”

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“You think we’re her cause now?”

Dean grunted. “Fuck no,” he said. He paused. Looked away, out over the swamp. Mist rose over the water, and the early sun leant it an eerie pearlescent glow that should have been beautiful, but instead only made him sad. His eyes drifted back to his brother and he offered a tight half smile.

“We’re not her cause, Sammy. Cas is.” His mouth twisted. “That should be pathetic, ya know? A demon all in a tither over an angel. But for some reason it’s not. Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe I’m goin’ soft or somethin’.”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a little grin, “that’s probably it.”

Dean swatted at him, but Sam easily dodged the blow. “Jesus,” Dean said. “Let’s get outta here before we break out in song or some shit.”

Sam tossed Dean the knife and packed the rest of the supplies he’d need for the demon bomb. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, and they were a few steps down the path when he finally spoke again.

“You can braid my hair if you want.”

“Shut your face.”

A pause.

“Meg might have a bra you can borrow.”

“One more word and I feed you to a gator."

* * *

Meg staggered from the force of Crowley’s blow and let out a howl of agony. Fucking angel blades. Crowley loved them because they hurt like a son of a bitch, and they were one of the few things capable of killing a demon for good. She’d twisted aside at the last minute and he’d missed anything vital, but still…ow. He yanked the sword out of her and studied the bloody blade with an appreciative little smile.

“Not exactly subtle, but it certainly is effective.”

Cas stood nearby, fists clenched and head bowed. His Grace simmered just below the surface, and his vessel sparked and popped with it. The demons shifted nervously and took a few steps back. Meg pressed a hand to the wound and smirked up at Crowley.

“Poor sap doesn’t like to see anyone in pain. It’s an angel thing, I think.” Worth it, she thought, as the pain rippled through her in agonizing waves. Now Crowley had played his hand, and unless he chained her to a chair he wouldn’t be able to get the drop on her like that again.

Not that she’d put it past him to chain her to a chair.

“Now, Castiel, we can be civilized about this. Meg and I are on… _intimate_  terms. We were together for over a century, and in that time one learns things. I know what makes her scream. What makes her cry and beg. Tell me, Castiel. Tell me what I want to know, and our little pet walks away.”

Crowley pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sword clean. “Don’t, and she and I will write exquisite new songs together.”

Meg let out a pained snort. “Fuck you, Crowley. Even a vapor-for-brains cloud hopper like Clarence here knows better than to listen to your bullshit.”

“Enough,” Cas ground out.

“There’s a good lad,” Crowley said. “Now tell us what we want to know.”

Cas glanced at Meg, and her eyes said a thousand things.  _Don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it. I can take it. I took it for a hundred years. What do you think I am? Don’t you_ fucking _dare._

“You’re too late,” he said. “The prophet has finished translating the tablet and the trials have begun. Dean is mad now, but he won’t be forever, and he won’t lose sight of the mission. The Gates will be closed, and you’ll be trapped inside. Forever.”

Crowley glared over at her, and she shrugged her good shoulder. “Hell if I know. I’m just a girl lookin’ for a Band-Aid. You wanted the angel and I got you the angel. The rest is up to you.”

“No, no, no,  _no_! This doesn’t suit me  _at all_!” He twirled the blade like a baton and paced a circle around the garden. “One Winchester dead, the other lost in the desert. The tablet translated and the prophet useless. What the hell am I  _paying you for_?”

“Are you talking to me?” Meg said. “Because you haven’t paid me shit.”

He ignored her. “I need to get in that house.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you covered it in Enochian,” she said. “I’m sure our good little soldier here would’ve been happy to flit inside and take a look-see.”

“Maybe I don’t want the angels getting their hands on whatever’s in there. Did you think of that?”

She rolled her eyes and tried to hide a grimace of pain. “Looks like we’re at an impasse. What’s plan B, O nefarious one?”

“Sir?”

“What?” Crowley roared, whipping around with blazing eyes.

The demon paled and held out several fancy looking bags with tissue paper peeking from the tops. “Um, the clothes, sir. For, um…Meg? As you requested, sir.”

His face cleared. “Ah, of course. Thank you.” He waved his hand and the demon set the bags on the patio and scampered away. “You should change, my dear. Your shirt is all covered in blood.”

“I don’t know; I think it’s an improvement.” She offered a gamine grin, but he just glowered. “But I guess since your minion went to all this trouble, it would be rude not to accept.” She gathered the packages and looked around, brows raised. “Some privacy?”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’d rather not have you out of my sight. Right here is fine. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, really, despite the new meatsuit.”

She couldn’t stop the darting glance at Cas, and his total lack of reaction was reaction enough. She lifted her chin and glared daggers at Crowley. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You want a show? That’s  _fine_.”

She didn’t take her eyes off Crowley as she unbuckled her belt and tossed it down. Carefully undid each button and let the shirt slip off her shoulders. It stuck a bit to the wound and she bit back a hiss that made his mouth quirk in amusement. Naked, she sauntered over to tea table and poured a bit of water from the pitcher there onto a corner of the shirt. Used the wet fabric to wash the blood from her skin.

The wound still seeped, and she could tell it wouldn’t stop any time soon. She turned her back on Crowley and pressed the shirt against it. She didn’t want him to know how badly the blade had hurt her, or how slow she was to heal. She ripped the shirt into strips and tied a bit around her shoulder. It looked ridiculous, but it would do. She heard Crowley titter behind her, and she cast him a glare.

She dug through the bags and picked from the clothes the demon had brought. A pair of black skinny jeans. A cobalt blue silk top (almost the color of Cas’ tie, but she chose to ignore that coincidence). A sinfully soft black leather jack. A pair of gorgeous black ankle boots with plenty of heel.

“Your minion done good, Crowley. You should give him a cookie.” She got dressed slowly, nonchalantly, each movement studied and unhurried like a graceful dance. She wouldn’t let Crowley see her humiliation. She refused to let him revel in it. Let him think she didn’t care. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid games.

A search through the smallest bag produced a tube of Chanel lipstick in a sinful red called  _Passion_. She applied it with deft skill and smacked her lips together in satisfaction. Thus armored, she turned to face Crowley with a droll grin and a new swagger to her gait.

“I feel like a new woman,” she said in a smoky drawl.

“That’s my girl,” Crowley said. “Now that you’re presentable, perhaps we can behave more like civilized creatures.”

“You’re the one who always makes with the threats and the torture, Crowley. I brought you what you wanted and you stabbed me. Brutus was kinder to Caesar.”

She tucked her fingers into the pockets of her jeans and sauntered around the patio just to hear the sound of her heels on the stone. She did a circle around Cas and draped an arm over his shoulder. She could feel him trembling with barely contained rage, and his Grace was a low familiar burn that steadied her. “You remember that, dontcha, tree topper? The Ides of March,  _et tu_ …good times, weren’t they?”

He shifted his blazing eyes from Crowley to her. His face might have been carved from marble. “Are you referring to the play by William Shakespeare or the actual assassination of Caesar? I’ve born witness to both.”

“Such a badass,” she murmured. She pressed against him, and the slight quirk of his brows told her he felt the angel blade she’d tucked into her leather jacket.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Crowley said.

“Nope,” she said. “I think we’re good.” She peeled away and strolled toward Crowley. “Now. About that plan B.”

“Ah, yes. I should introduce you.”

He muttered something, and a tall redhead appeared behind him. She was dressed like an angel—boring pantsuit, perfect chignon—but there was no  _whoosh_  of wings to mark her entrance. She smiled, serene but with an edge, and the expression didn’t reach her cold blue eyes.

“Meg, meet Naomi. Naomi, this is my dear Meg. I imagine you two have  _loads_  to talk about.”

Meg sensed Cas’ movement behind her, and she held up a hand to stop him. Naomi started forward, and Crowley let out a self-satisfied little laugh. Time slowed. Cas surged past her, lips peeled back in a feral snarl. Meg pressed the sword into his hand and he raised it. He wasn’t aiming for Crowley, though. He was heading straight for Naomi, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop him.

The seconds ticked by like minutes, and an instant before the killing blow would have hit home, the world exploded into chaos.

Meg tackled Cas before he could stab Naomi and fuck up every plan they’d ever made. Yeah, sure, it would be nice to see the angel bitch dead, but it might also cook his noodle, and she liked his noodle exactly the way it was. Plus, if she were dead they couldn’t find out what she and Crowley were up to, and information was everything.

They rolled across the flagstones and Meg nearly cried out from the pain in her shoulder. Cas hit the fence and she slammed into him. Luckily he had the sword against his side and neither of them were impaled on the blade’s deadly length. He flipped them around so that she was between him and the fence and she kicked him in the shin and tried to see over his shoulder.

“Stay down!” he ordered, roughly.

“What’s happening?”

“Dean and Sam’s diversionary tactic is working, it would seem.”

“Jesus, Clarence, I’m so glad that your unyielding grasp on the obvious remains unshaken even in times of crisis. I  _meant_  what’s happening with Crowley and Naomi. Would you move your giant head? I can’t see anything!”

He ignored her. “You’re hurt. You need to stay still.”

“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Meg,” he said, his voice going both hard and gentle at the same time, which was some sort of weird, crazy angel trick she hadn’t figured out yet.

She glared and let him push her jacket aside. His fingers found the wound beneath the thin silk of her shirt, and his face creased in consternation. “I can’t heal this. He’s injured your true form as well as your vessel.” He shifted. “I could stop the bleeding.”

“Good. I don’t wanna fuck up this coat.”

“Meg—”

“Just do what you can, Nurse Ratched. We don’t have time to fuck around right now.”

He let out a soft sigh, the impatient one he used when there were about a million things he wanted to say but he knew she either wouldn’t listen or he didn’t know how to say them. Either way he closed his mouth and pressed his hand against her shoulder. There was a soft glow, a sharp stab of pain, and a burning warmth that was both frightening and incredibly arousing. When he pulled his hand away she smiled at him, slow and lazy, and he blinked.

“I don’t believe we have time for  _that_ , either, and I certainly don’t think this is the place,” he said.

“Raincheck, hot wings, if we live through all this. Now get us outta here before Crowley notices we’re gone. I don’t think I wanna tangle with that Naomi chick.” She frowned. “Whatever she is.”

“What do you mean? She’s an angel.”

“Nuh uh, sugar. If she’s an angel then I’m Donald Duck. I’m a demon. We can smell angel from a mile away, and that chick did  _not_  have the scent. And didn’t you notice? No wings when she popped in. Just not here, then here, all creepy and silent, ninja style.”

His eyes went vacant as he thought it over, and she tugged on his coat to bring him back. “Puzzle it out later, featherbrain. Right now we’ve gotta destroy the Enochian on the house and get you inside to rescue those two morons before they shoot themselves in the foot or something.”

He passed her the sword and a can of spray paint (she spared a moment to wonder what else he had squirreled away in those pockets) before they vanished in a rustle of wings.

* * *

Dean stabbed another demon with the knife and spun toward Sam. Two more steps and they’d be on the porch. It was bathed in salt, Meg had said, and off limits to the demons. Once they got in they were counting on Cas to get them out, and that was dependent on Meg and the angel destroying the graffiti the demons had added to the house’s paint job. If the bomb hadn’t been enough diversion, or if one or both of them were already dead.…

He tossed the knife to his brother and another demon died in a shower of sparks and smoke. He couldn’t think like that. It was an insane plan with way too many risks, but maybe that’s why it would work. Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him up onto the porch and out of harm’s way. They booked it inside and slammed the hurricane shutters down over the windows.

“Nice,” Sam said. The shutters were painted with demon wards, and the back door had a devil’s trap carved into its jam. “This Remy guy was either incredibly paranoid or incredibly smart.”

“Or both,” Dean said. “Betcha there’s another one of those devil’s traps carved under the front and back porches.”

Sam’s mouth quirked. “Wouldn’t doubt it.” He turned a circle and studied the homey kitchen they found themselves in. Bunches of dried herbs hung from a pot rack. The countertops were warm wood. The floor was dark brick. The cabinets were pine. “What are we looking for anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas said as he staggered into view.

“Whoa, buddy,” said Dean. “This is the second time today you’ve popped in looking less than your best. Did you forget to eat your Wheaties this morning?”

“Cas, where’s Meg?”

“Meg is fine. I took her back to your bunker. I’m unhurt. There’s just something about this house…Meg and I removed the Enochian added by Crowley’s demons, but Remy must have had some angel proofing of his own.” He shook his head and pressed a hand to his temple. “I didn’t notice it before, perhaps because I was already in a weakened condition.”

“Okay,” Dean said, “then the faster we find this whatever it is, the better. Let’s split up.”

“We don’t even know what we’re looking for,” Sam said. “Cas, would you recognize it? I mean, I assume if there’s something hidden in here, it’d be pretty powerful. It’d be giving off, like…vibes?”

“Fine. Sam, you take Cas on the tour. I’m gonna make sure the house is secure from our friends outside.”

“No, wait,” Cas said. He held up a hand. “It’s here.”

“Here?” said Sam. “Where?”

“There.” Cas pointed. There was an unassuming metal lockbox on the mantel. It looked like a regular locker, nothing special. It had once been painted bright red, but time had faded the color to a dull crimson, and rust flaked at the corners. Its lock looked old and rickety, and Dean thought a few blows from a hammer would bust it.

“That’s it? That’s what all this fuss is about?” he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Yes,” Cas said. “There’s something inside that box. Take it, Dean. I can’t touch it.”

He frowned at Cas but did as he said. The box was incredibly heavy, heavier than it should be, and he grunted from the effort of lifting it. Sam eyed him, and he shook his head.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Leavin’ my Baby alone in this shit hole town for this long’s makin’ me jumpy as all hell.”

Cas grasped each Winchester by the wrist. There was a long moment when nothing happened, and then an even longer moment when the world seemed to tilt…but then finally they were on the empty street in Marguerite, and Dean’s precious car was perfectly fine.

“Fuck me, Cas,” Dean said. “That was nasty.”

“I apologize. The box…” He made a vague gesture and looked greenish. “I should get back to Meg. We’ll wait for you at the bunker. Travel straight there.”

Sam reached for him. “Wait, Cas—”

But he was gone, and they were alone in a town full of demons.


	21. Change is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg and Cas return to the bunker, and Sam and Dean worry about the lockbox' contents.

**It may be better to move and let life just carry on**  
 **And I may be wrong.**  
 **Still I'll try.**  
 **Because it's better to love whether you win or lose or die.**  
 **It's better to love,**  
 **And I will love you until I die.**  
-The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Graveyard Near the House"

Meg let him in to the bunker when he popped back, and at his questioning look she pointed up. “Surveillance cameras. Not original, judging by this place’s general retro vibe, but I think Winchester the bigger’s been busy.”

“Ah,” he said. He followed her as she drifted down the steps. The place was a shambles. The boys hadn’t bothered to put the books away, and the tables and floor were covered with discarded volumes and empty beer bottles. Cas frowned. “Some of these are quite rare, I think.”

“Yeah,” Meg said, her fingers trailing across worn covers. “They look it. Maybe we should clean up. Would hate for something to get spilled on one of these.”

He peered at her with probing midnight eyes. “I’ll take care of this. You should rest. Your wound—”

“It’s nothing, Clarence. I told you.”

“Meg—”

She turned away and flicked her hand in weary dismissal. “Cas—”

“No,” he said. He stepped toward her and grasped her arms, gently but firmly. “For once, listen to me. I can see it.” He ran his palm over her shoulder, and his brow was deeply furrowed. “The wound is like a bright scar in your true form. A crack in the darkness. It should not  _be_.”

She swallowed. “You ever see a demon walk away from an angel blade before?”

He shook his head, a slow denial. “In my experience the blow is always fatal. You were extremely lucky.”

Her chin drifted downward and her eyes darkened. “Lucky. Yeah. I guess just how  _lucky_  I am remains to be seen.” She bit her lip and chewed hard. “That knife Sam and Dean have, the one Ruby gave them. You can hurt a demon with it and not kill them. It doesn’t do permanent damage.”

He released her and stepped away with a small troubled exhalation. “I know little about the knife, but I do know it’s not the same as one of our swords. Our weapons are forged with angelic Grace, Meg. It would be the same as if I smote you and somehow you survived. You would be forever marked by Grace. Transfigured by it.”

“ _Transfigured_. Jesus, Clarence, that’s a big word. What exactly are you saying?”

He hesitated. Held up his hands in a gesture of futility. “I don’t know, Meg.”

“So what do we do?” she said after a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said again. “It will never heal. It will always pain you. Possibly it will grow.”

She absorbed the idea with a soft shudder and a curse. “What’re we talkin’ here, pain wise? Like constant agony, or just a bum knee that bothers me when it rains?”

“How does it feel now?”

Her face scrunched. He wondered for a moment if she’d answer him, but finally she shrugged her good shoulder and tossed out a careless grin. “I’ve had worse paper cuts.”

Lie. It was writ all over her, in every line and curve. He didn’t call her out on it, and for that she was grateful.

She looked up at him. His face was ravaged, bleak and worn, his eyes like starless galaxies spinning and endless. “I doubt there’s anything in any of these books about how to heal a demon,” she said with a cynical twist to her mouth. “Why would anyone want to?”

“I want to,” he said in a quiet, rough voice.

“Welp, feathers, that makes two of us. Unfortunately I think we’re in the overwhelming minority on this one.” She wandered away and did a slow circuit around the room, pausing to study some of the more arcane objects as she passed them. He knew she was just stalling, and he let her. He had the patience of an angel, after all.

Finally she stopped in front of him. Squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Fine,” she said. “If this is how it’s gonna be, then  _fine_. I’m not  _transfigured_  yet. I can still help those two idiots with their mission.”

“What mission?” Cas said.

“The Gates, sugarplum. They want to close the Gates of Hell, right? Crowley and all his little minions get sucked inside? Sounds like a plan to me.” She shook back her hair and grinned like a wild thing, all teeth and flashing eyes. “Now, I’m gonna go take a shower before I get mistaken for the Creature from the Black Lagoon and someone throws a net over my ass.”

Cas opened his mouth to stop her, but she was gone before he could say anything. He frowned after her, utterly nonplussed. How could he hope to ever understand such a creature? Her moods, her whims, the pride she wore like a mantle. He shook his head and began gathering books and bottles.

A Queen amongst her kind indeed.

* * *

Meg turned the shower as hot as it would go and stood beneath the stinging spray. She let it run over her hair. Down her skin. It hit her shoulder where Cas had so recently healed it, and she hissed from the contact. Probed the sensitive spot with gentle fingers. She could feel her true form beneath the meatsuit’s skin and Cas was right: all was not well.

She’d heard humans use an expression before:  _it left a stain on my soul_. They said it when they’d done something so awful they felt it could never be washed away. Murder, she supposed, but really she thought that had to depend on who you were killing.

Whatever. Beside the point.

For the first time in her long existence she understood what the expression meant. All her time with Clarence he’d left marks on her; tiny clean stamps like someone writing  _wash me_  in a car’s back window; but that was nothing compared to this. This was…this was  _light_. Bright and pure and shit fuck goddamn  _painful_ , like her arm was plugged into an outlet or someone was constantly sliding a hot knife through her shoulder and out the other side.

He’d said it could grow. He’d said it could  _transfigure_  her. What did that even mean? Transfigure her into what? She was a  _demon_. She  _liked_  being a demon. She was cold and cruel and heartless and it had worked for her for millennia. Why change a good (or really fucking  _bad_ ) thing now?

Fucking angels! Why did they have to ruin  _everything_? First he’d nurtured a stupid imaginary spark, and now this bullshit. Muttering and cursing under her breath, she grabbed the shampoo bottle off the edge of the shower and stared down at it.

Oh, fucking perfect. Boy shampoo. Stupid Winchester scented  _boy_  shampoo! She cursed louder and threw it out into the bathroom where it bounced around a few times before coming to rest against the sink. There was a bottle of Old Spice body wash that followed it, and a bar of Irish Springs soap that nearly shattered the mirror.

“Fucking stupid Winchesters and their fucking stupid  _boy_   _toiletries_  and their fucking stupid  _shit_!” she screamed as she lobbed a can of Gillette shaving cream over the curtain.

Cas dodged the aluminum missile and stared around the bathroom with a puzzled frown. He could hear Meg’s yelling out in the main room, and he’d worried that she was injured. Now he was more worried about the state of the shower.

“Meg?” he called.

“Go away, Clarence!”

He pondered for a moment, but the unusually shrill tone of her voice decided him.

“What are you  _doing_?” she cried as he appeared next to her. “Where are your clothes?”

He looked down with a slight frown. “Last time I joined you in the bath fully clothed you expressed displeasure. I thought I would save some trouble and undress first.”

She let out a sad little laugh. “I told you to go away. I know I mentioned a raincheck back at…at Remy’s, but I’m not really in the mood right now.”

“I’m not here…” He let the thought trail off and glowered. “This isn’t about sex. I was concerned.” He studied her a moment, and his glower deepened. “You’re crying.”

“Oh, fuck you, I am not. It’s just the shower.”

He touched her face with light fingers. “You are. Tell me what’s wrong, Meg.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, a purely defensive gesture, and stood beneath the spray with narrowed eyes and tense, hard muscles. He waited her out, his expression gentle and patient. As much as she hated it, there was something about that look that just undid her. Always had. Her shoulders slumped and she sagged against him.

“I’m a  _demon_ , Clarence,” she said in a small voice.

“I know that you are. You’re a Queen amongst your kind. Haven’t I always said it?”

“I know. I know. I’m a crazy demon bitch. Heartless and cruel and mean as a snake. Isn’t that true?”

His mouth quirked above her head where she couldn’t see, and he stroked her wet hair back off her shoulder. “If you say so.”

“It’s bad enough I’m all mixed up over some big-eyed angel. I mean, really, that can be spun to my advantage. I’m a seductive minx and not even the holy can resist my sinful charms.”

His brow furrowed a little, but he merely nodded. “They are quite charming. And seductive.”

“If I have to be transfigured, fine. Shit happens, I guess. Maybe I’ll be transfigured into something cool like a fucking banshee. I could work with that. But!” She shoved away and glared up at him. “I draw the line at one thing. I utterly, completely, absolutely  _refuse_  to walk around  _smelling like a fucking Winchester_!”

He gaped at her. “Meg—”

“It’s all boy stuff in here! Shampoo, soap, body wash, shaving cream, deodorant! I spent a century in Hell subjected to unimaginable torment. I got out and had to swim through a fucking  _swamp_. Now all I want is a hot shower and a clean pair of underwear, and I can’t even get any decent smelling  _shampoo_!”

She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. He didn’t know for sure if she was crying or if it was just rage, but either way he was paralyzed. One part of him knew, of course, that this outburst had nothing to do with shampoo, but the much larger part was panicking. He’d never seen her so upset before, and he didn’t know what to do.

“I…Meg…” He looked around in desperation. “Wait here.”

She raised her head. “What…?” He was gone before she could get the thought fully formed, and she stared at the empty air with wide, puzzled eyes. She was still trying to decide whether to be amused or angry when he reappeared, still naked and dripping, his arms overflowing with plastic bottles.

She stared at him.

“Here,” he said, holding out his haul like an eager offering.

“Clarence,” she said, “did you just pop out to a drug store?”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “I got everything I could carry.”

She tried to swallow a laugh. “Did you, um…did you go like that?”

His head tilted. He looked down. “Ah. Yes. I was in a hurry.”

Meg clapped a hand over her mouth and fell back against the slippery tiled wall. “Oh my God. Holy shit, Clarence.  _Tonight at eleven: area shoppers were stunned when a hot naked guy made off with a shit-ton of lady-scented bath stuff. In related news, condom sales are at a record high._ ”

He made a low noise. “Perhaps I should have acted with more forethought.”

She gripped her stomach and laughed until she could barely stand up. “No, Cas. No.” She shoved the bottles aside, and they tumbled to the shower floor with a clatter. She pulled him close and pressed her mouth to his, a long soft kiss that warmed him all the way through.

“Don’t ever change, cloud hopper,” she murmured against his lips. “Don’t ever change.”

* * *

“What do you think’s in it?” Sam said. They were about five hours north of Marguerite, booking it toward the bunker, and they kept returning to the same topic of conversation: Cas’ mysterious lockbox and its super-secret contents.

“Hell if I know. Maybe the Colonel’s famous recipe, or the formula for Coke. I just want it out of my car. Thing’s gotta be a demon and angel magnet.”

“Crowley’ll probably come looking for it. That Naomi chick, too.”

“Yeah, I know. Hopefully between our marked-up ribs and these hex bags, we’ll be safe. Cas and Meg should be fine as long as they stay underground. Cas said he couldn’t track Meg once she was inside the bunker, and she said the same thing about us. That’s some serious Men of Letters mojo.”

Sam ran a hand down his face. “Okay, so, what do we do?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder and stared out at the long stretch of road ahead of them. “We take it back. We pop it open. We figure out what’s inside. If Cas doesn’t know what it is, we do some research. Just because there wasn’t much about the blue-lipped guys in our library doesn’t meant there won’t be anything about whatever this is.”

“What about Meg?”

Dean glanced at him, brows drawn together. “What about her?”

“You gonna kick her out?”

He drummed his fingers against the wheel and fiddled with the radio a moment. Finally, “No. Why would I do that? As long as she makes herself useful she can stay. She starts pissing me off, she’s gone. It’s a big place. I think we can deal with each other.”

Sam ducked his head to hide a grin. “What about the cat?”

“Fuck,” Dean said with a groan. “I forgot about the fucking cat. No way. I gotta draw the line at the cat. I’m allergic! I’m not having cat hair all over our awesome Bat Cave.”

“Cas won’t be happy.”

“Cas can get the fuck over it. He wants a cat, he can get his own place. The cat can live outside. It can catch mice or whatever. No fuckin’ cats.”

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “No cats. Got it.” His stomach rumbled. “Man, I’m hungry. Think we have time for a quick stop?”

“Sure. There’s a Ruby Tuesday at the next exit.”

He shook his head. “Fuck you, man. Fuck you so hard.”

Dean cackled. “What? They have a salad bar!”

“I hate you.”

“Liar. You find my wit refreshing and hilarious.”

“I couldn’t find your  _wit_  with a map and a flashlight.”

His only response was to crank the stereo and sing along with AC/DC. He made a gesture toward his ear and shook his head. Sam rolled his eyes and turned to watch the scenery.

Some things, at least, never changed.

* * *

End 21/21

Continued in "Half Life"


End file.
